


Rain Falling Down Around My Ears

by maychorian



Series: Rain Falling Down [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Gen, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Jimmy Novak, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Nightmares, Pre-Series, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 17:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19214077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maychorian/pseuds/maychorian
Summary: Something was wrong about this body. This shell of flesh, it should have been bigger. Larger, stronger, taller. It had been bigger not that long ago. Hadn't it? It had, he knew it had...Originally posted to ff.n on 07-27-09.





	1. Rain Falling Down Around My Ears

**Author's Note:**

> I later wrote this idea again as [Coming Down on a Sunny Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2276331/chapters/5002224), with Jimmy and Cas going to John instead of to Bobby. I still like this prototype 'verse, but Coming Down was the fulfillment of all of my ambitions. I still think it's one of the best things I've ever written, if not THE best.
> 
> This story is really a series of connected one-shots. Much, much more could be done in the 'verse, but it is complete as is.

Rain pattered down on the world outside, running hard over wood like drumming fingers, hitting the windows in the next room with the sharp clatter of something small and mischievous seeking entrance. He could a feel a coolness brought by the rain, a relief to the close, cramped heat of the small space he was in, small but there. He thanked God for the rain, for the brief comfort of it. It was more than he'd had for a long time.

He hurt and his throat was dry, body gummed with dried sweat and something else. Small hands opened and closed, trembling with the movement, unable to clench into fists. It was something, though, proof that he was still living. Swallowing brought with it an ache and a burn, tearing at already abused muscles, and he quickly gave it up.

Something was wrong. He knew it, but he couldn't...he couldn't remember. He couldn't remember anything. All before this room was a confused jumble, dark and chaotic. And everything in this room was dark, close, stuffy. Yet somehow he knew that there had to be light somewhere. He wished he could remember what it looked like, wished he could close his eyes and bathe in it, let it wash away his pain and weariness, the brokenness in this mind and body.

Something was wrong with this body. He could feel bones moving inside, bones that should be still, and there was a profusion of pains both sharp and dull. He lay where he was and could not rise, no matter how he wished to, able only to open and close his hands, to breathe in the dark and listen to the rain.

More than that, though...something was  _wrong_  about this body. This shell of flesh, it should have been bigger. Larger, stronger, taller. It had been bigger not that long ago. Hadn't it? It had, he knew it had, he'd been wearing it for over a year and it had never been this small, this fragile.

Castiel blinked in the dark. The chaotic jumble of memories slowly settled in his mind, patches of it clearing like fog lifting from a landscape ruined by earthquake, tumbled rocks and torn earth. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

It wasn't...he wasn't the one controlling this body. The quiet, careful breathing, the wide-eyed blinks, the rhythmic opening and closing of the battered hands, the fearful hammering of the heart. He wasn't doing it. It wasn't his choice.

He was trapped.

_What happened? I must remember. I must fix this._

His heart started beating faster, and his mouth opened, a small, young voice shrill and terrified in the close darkness. "Who said that? Who's here?"

Jimmy.

Jimmy Novak.

Castiel's mind went white.

_The world ended bloody. Castiel saw it all, and he was there at the end when everything went up in flames._

_Dean was dead on the ground, intestines hanging out of his mangled gut like broken rope. His brother stood over him, laughing with bloody teeth. His eyes were golden and Lucifer looked out of them. But Castiel could hear the boy inside, screaming. He'd only ever wanted to be safe, to be normal, to be good, and this was the ultimate perversion of his every desire._

_Angels fell around them in tattered wings and golden fire, meteors brought to the ground and seized by shadow. Anna was defiant to the last, but she fell, bright hair black with blood. Zachariah died with a look of terrible surprise. He had thought it would all work out to his ends. This hubris was his downfall, and that would have been horrifying enough, for an angel of such high rank and station to miscalculate so badly and cause his own defeat. But he had brought the entire planet down with him, too, and that was unbearable._

_There was no paradise. There was only fire. Fire, and death, and darkness, and evil triumphant._

_Castiel was the last angel standing, mainly because he was aware of his own limitations and usually did his best to stay out of the direct line of fire. He was support, a ground trooper to his brothers' and sisters' air strike, always had been. He had lurked around the edges of the battlefield, doing what he could where he could, trying to keep an eye out for the Winchesters. He had failed, too. Just like everyone else in the whole entire world._

_A demon grabbed Castiel from behind, enormous long arms wrapped around his torso, trapping his wings, crushing them, squeezing his borrowed lungs and wrenching a gasp from him. Castiel bucked and kicked himself backward into the solid chest behind him, twisted, struggled, couldn't get free. He couldn't get free. Sulfurous breath chuckled in his ear, low and eager, and claws dug into his arms and side, tearing bloody furrows in Jimmy Novak's flesh._

_The world was dying around him and Castiel was at the end and there was nothing left, nothing. Dean was dead and Sam was possessed and it was all wrong, every last thing. Castiel thought then that if angels had tears in them, certainly his would be falling now. But his eyes were dry and his heart was ice. It was too late and there was no way to fix things, no way to fix anything._

_Too late... The demon huffed in Castiel's ear, burning breath scorching his flesh, and Castiel winced and turned his face away. His death was coming and he knew it, but he could not welcome it, even now. It was too late, it was all too late, but he couldn't give up. Dean wouldn't give up. Dean never gave up._

_It was too late, and that meant... The only way to fix things, to change this awful ending, was to start again. Go back to the beginning. Try once more. There was no time to ask permission. There was no one to ask. It was all on Castiel, it was his decision, and he knew now what he would do._

_The demon holding Castiel thrust out a single claw, digging in between his ribs, a sharp nudge of pain barely noticeable against the pounding in his head. Castiel drew a breath, and then he threw himself_ backward.

_Something went wrong. The journey should have been instaneous, a step from one time into the next, easy as passing from one planet into the other. The white fire of divine grace, edged with the golden glow of God's sight, God's approval. But this journey into the past was accompanied with fire, smoke, blinding pain._

_The demon. The demon had latched onto Castiel, was riding with him. Castiel fought again, bucking, lashing out with grace and flesh and everything he had, but he still could not free himself. His heart was caught in his throat, choking him, and everything was drowning in furious sparks of red and white._

_A rending crash, like hitting a wall, and the demon tore free with claws digging deep gashes in Castiel's spirit as the creature was forcibly removed from his essence. Castiel tumbled and rolled to a stop, crashing and rebounding. He could not see what he was hitting, but he felt every impact, jarring his bones and clattering his teeth together._

_At last he fell still, and then he knew nothing for a long time._

The small hands were clenched as tight as they could be, and Castiel felt how swollen three of the fingers were, the jarred and bruised bones within, throbbing along a thin line of agony. Jimmy... His hand had been slammed in a door. Castiel saw a flash of the memory suddenly in the vessel's mind, a face looming over him twisted in rage, humanity made demonic, the adult's hand grabbing Jimmy harshly, pressing his hand against the jamb and slamming the door on it.

"Who are you?" the boy said again. And he was a boy, just a boy, young and small. Younger than his daughter Claire had been when Castiel had briefly filled her flesh to wreak havoc among the demons who had captured her.

Castiel had meant to travel back in time, to change everything. He hadn't meant to do...this.

_Jimmy._

The boy's breath hitched in his throat, his heart stuttering for a moment. "Who's there?"

He whispered it now, afraid of being heard.

_Jimmy Novak. You believe in God, yes? I feel the faith in you._

The child nodded, short and sharp, just once.

_Your mother told you about angels. You believe in them as well._

"She said angels were watching over me."

_We are. I am._

Jimmy turned his head to the side, a tear trailing down his cheek, hot and bitter.

More flashes of memory, these from Jimmy's mind instead of Castiel's. A single night of terror and flame, black smoke tearing into their home, shaking the walls, the roof, and then fire, fire, fire. Jimmy screaming, his parents trapped, smoke and more smoke, burning his eyes and throat, tears pouring down his face in an endless deluge.

Castiel felt sick to his soul. The demon he had brought back with him, latched to his spirit, ripping at his grace and twisting his intentions... While Castiel was out of consciousness, unable to help, it had destroyed his young vessel's family.

He had wanted to make things better. He had only made them worse.

_Jimmy, I am an angel of the Lord. My name is Castiel. I am here to help you._

This hadn't been his original mission, but it was now.

"I can't see you."

Castiel could feel the burn in the boy's throat, harsh and aching. He wondered when the last time was that Jimmy had been allowed to drink.

_We walk by faith and not by sight._

Jimmy lay still, his heartbeat slowing, his breath turning restful, at peace. His hands finally stopped opening and closing, resting at his sides. The rain pattered on outside, cool and light and invisible, but there.

_Jimmy, will you let me help you? This body is wounded. I can take it over for a small time and bring you relief._

He didn't nod and he didn't speak again—it hurt too much—but Castiel felt the surrender in him, even so. With that permission, Castiel, still shaken and weakened himself, was able to fill the hurt little body from toes to fingertips, light rushing in to banish the darkness.

Or at least, that was what he meant to do. He intended to cleanse away all of the hurt and pain with a single flood of light, to send Jimmy into a peaceful rest and get them out of this small room as soon as it could be done. But it was as if he hit a wall. Halfway to sitting, halfway to filling the vessel, Castiel doubled over, gasping and panting. His spirit felt cramped, twisted and still trapped, still imprisoned.

_Castiel?_

Jimmy's voice in his mind, worried, breath starting to speed up again.

"All is well," Castiel said. He felt the grating in his throat even more harshly now, and was only glad that he could shield Jimmy from the pain, even if just a part of it. He felt the wall at his back, cool and smooth, and leaned on it gratefully. He was shaking uncontrollably.

"Jimmy, I must attempt something. Please bear with me."

_O-Okay._

Castiel closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, one shaky breath at a time, in and out, in and out. Jimmy was still and quiet inside him, calm, trusting. He could feel the immensity of Castiel's experience and power, and he waited for the angel to take care of whatever needed done. Castiel regretted the action that he must try now, but vowed to return quickly.

He raised his eyes to Heaven and murmured a prayer, then breathed out, slow and steady, with deliberate intention. He needed to exit this boy, just for a time, so he could use his full power and free them from this room. Strangely enough, he couldn't wait to feel the rain.

But it didn't work. Castiel's spirit quivered, straining against the bonds that shackled it, then slumped back, defeated. He couldn't leave Jimmy's body.

He was truly trapped.

 _Castiel?_  The boy's voice quivered, too, suddenly not quite so certain of the angel's power.

He had felt that too. He knew their situation. More than just sharing Jimmy Novak's body, Castiel was now sharing  _everything_  with the little boy.

The poor child must be so terrified, he thought, and hoped that he hadn't heard that, too.

 _No._  Confidence back in the small voice.  _No, I'm not scared. You're an angel. You came for me. I have faith in God and He heard my prayers._

Once again, Castiel was humbled by a human. Such faith. The boy was small, but he was mighty.

 _Thanks._  Brightness now, Jimmy sharing his own light with Castiel. It built between them, stronger for the sharing.  _It's gonna be okay. You'll figure it out._

"Thank you, child."

Castiel tipped his head back against the wall and concentrated on breathing through aching lungs. His powers were constrained, shattered somehow by the demon's attack. He could neither leave nor take over this body fully, and he suspected that Jimmy would be able to wrest control back from him if he even half-wanted to. Worse, he couldn't heal these wounds, couldn't knit these cracked bones, these shallow gashes, couldn't soothe the bruised flesh and thirsty throat. He was certain that he wouldn't be able to transport, either, wouldn't be able to move objects without touching them, wouldn't be able to access any of his other tools.

Well, perhaps he could do something. He hadn't tried to heal, specifically. If he poured all his efforts into just this, perhaps...

Some of the pain gradually leaked away, and he heard Jimmy's small sigh of relief. Again, he couldn't do it fully, couldn't do anything fully, but he was able to heal enough that he could shield the boy from almost all of the remaining pain. Castiel raised a hand to his face to wipe away the sweat and found it sticky, something thick and warm running from his nose.

A sudden thump outside the door, and the small body tensed from head to toe, Jimmy instinctively reacting to the sound. Castiel wiped his hand on his shirt and turned his head to listen, trying to understand what was going on. A muffled male voice rumbled through the wall with malevolent power, angry and slurred, the words made nearly incomprehensible by drink. Jimmy's shoulders hunched up around his ears.

"Who is that?"

_My foster dad. He...he really doesn't like me. I don't know why. The last time he locked me in this closet he left me here all weekend, until I had to go back to school. Now it's summer break and...and I don't know how long he's going to keep me in here._

"No longer," Castiel assured him, rising slowly to his feet. He wrapped his arms around his torso and held on tight, the only way that he could fold Jimmy into an embrace. "Everything is going to be all right, child. I'm here now and I wouldn't leave you even if I could."

 _I know._  There was a palpable feeling of  _leaning,_  of Jimmy pressing his small, battered spirit up against the angel's.  _Kick his butt, Castiel._

"I fully intend to."

X

Bobby Singer lifted the whiskey bottle and tilted it to the side, considering. Rain poured down outside the window, soft and steady, washing all the old metal as if it could ever be clean. It was too early to be drinking, despite how dark and gray it felt with the storm wrapping around his home.

What the hell. He lived alone and he wasn't expecting any customers, not on a day like this. He poured a finger of whiskey and gulped it down, twisting his lips at the familiar burn.

A stack of newspapers waited on the table by the door, dailies from the local area, weekend editions from major cities in ten or fifteen states around, plus New York and California. Bobby took the stack to his desk and started methodically sorting through them, looking for the strange, the unusual, the suspicious. Every now and then he clipped a likely-looking article and added it to this file or that. A rash of mysterious deaths in Minnesota, an inexplicable fire in Nebraska, a deadly bridge collapse in Texas.

Halfway down the stack was the Peoria Journal Star, all the news from central Illinois that was fit to print. Or at least all the news that was interesting. Bobby never had reason to doubt a journalist's eye for the unusual. And central Illinois usually had plenty of the unusual going on.

He added another potential grave disturbance to the file he was making for the Pekin area, then paused with his finger on the police reports page: arrests, charges, warrants. Les Baker was being charged with multiple counts of domestic battery and child endangerment, but there on the same page was Les Baker trying to charge James Novak with battery against himself. And a little further down...missing: James Novak, ten years old.

Bobby flipped back through the paper, eyes roving restlessly back and forth. Surely there must be an article, however small, on such a bizzarre incident. And there it was, Les Baker found bruised and semi-conscious in his home, raving about how his ten-year-old foster son had beaten him, then run. "The kid was possessed," the man had raved. "His eyes were all wrong."

The police found blood in a small closet matching the boy's DNA, scratches on the wall from small fingernails, heard from neighbors about suspicious noises no one had bothered to report. Mrs. Baker had nothing to say.

Bobby leaned back in his chair, tracing a rectangle around the two-paragraph article with an absent finger. Demon possession was certainly a possibility. Demons had no respect for gender, for age, for anything. And a battered, abused child...yes, that would leave an opening in the mind for an evil spirit to enter. Bobby's stomach was sour, though. He didn't want to turn this hunt over to anyone else. If someone had to go after a ten-year-old kid, it might as well be him. He couldn't get any more damned than he already was.

A knock sounded on the door, slow, soft. It stopped almost immediately, before Bobby even had a chance to look up. He waited for a second, wondering if he'd imagined it. The knock didn't come again, but Bartholomew, curled on the rug by the cold fireplace in a vain hope that Bobby would light it up, lifted his muzzle and whined, looking to the door. Someone was there.

Bobby slowly crossed his living room, taking the time to snag one of his many flasks of holy water. A silver knife, too, tucked into the back of his belt. He opened the door, and had to adjust the angle of his vision when no one was there at eye-level.

It was a boy. Slight, soaked, shivering, arms wrapped around himself. Dark hair and blue eyes, dim and haunted. He was maybe nine or ten or eleven years old, something like that, and Bobby could see old bruises fading on his cheek, his neck, his forearms.

The man held still though, waiting. "Yup?"

"M-Mr. Singer? B-B-Bobby S-Singer?"

The boy was shaking hard, barely able to get the words out between blueish lips and chattering teeth. Bobby did not invite him inside.

"That's me. What's your name?"

He hesitated, wavering slightly on his feet. "I am c... My n-name... Jimmy. Please, my name is Jimmy."

"James Novak?"

The kid looked up, his eyes wide but unsurprised. He seemed almost...relieved. "You...you know me. I hoped you w-would."

"Kid, I don't know you from Adam. I know what you are, though."

The boy slumped, arms sliding down, head bowing. He swayed forward again, hard, would have fallen if Bobby hadn't caught his shoulder.

"Hey," he said sharply, pushing him upright. "Hey, Jimmy. I didn't say I trusted you. Just said I know what you are. I'm more interested in how you know who  _I_  am. Who sent you? How did you get here?"

Jimmy looked up, his eyes puzzled and weary, so weary. "But if you know what I am..." He shook his head gently, seemed afraid to do it too hard for fear it would fall off. "No one sent me. I sent myself. I brought myself. That's all. I have no one else. Only me. Only...Jimmy."

The boy sounded lost, defeated. Lonely. Bobby fought down the lump in his throat. He did not have time for this.

But he was beginning to doubt.

He let go of Jimmy's shoulder and unscrewed the flask. "Hey. Kid. You thirsty?"

Jimmy nodded, already starting to droop without Bobby's support, as unkind and standoffish as it had been. He took the flask in thin, shaking fingers and drank it down, almost at a gulp, then pressed the flask back into Bobby's hand and looked up at him again. "I need to find John Winchester."

Bobby shook his head. "I don't know anyone by that name."

"Oh." The boy let out a small, weary breath, then just sat down where he stood, right on Bobby's welcome mat. His arms hung limp at his sides and water trickled out of his sopping clothes, running along the wooden planks of the porch in sluggish rivulets.

Bobby stared down at the dark, bowed head, saw the evidence of healing cuts hidden in the tangled mop. He squinted out at the rain pouring down in the yard. Considered going back inside, shutting the door, returning to his stack of newspapers. Bartholomew whined behind him, low and anxious.

"Hey." Bobby sighed. Then he crouched down, took the boy's chin gently in his hand to tilt his face up and ignored the flinch. "Hey, you wanna come inside? I got stuff for grilled cheese sandwiches. Bet you're hungry."

Jimmy let out a long, soft sigh. He nodded. Bobby helped him up and got him into the house.

X

Jimmy sat at the kitchen table, wrapped in a quilt that Bobby hadn't used for a long, long time. He had stopped shivering, finally, though he slumped wearily in the chair with one hand holding a cheese sandwich and the other wrapped around a steaming mug of hot chocolate. He had eaten two sandwiches as fast as Bobby could make them, and now he held onto the third as if afraid to let it go. As if afraid that Bobby might take it from him.

Bobby finished fixing up his own sandwich—he liked oregano and tomatoes on his grilled cheese, thank you very much—and sat across from the boy with his mug of coffee. Now that he was fed and warm, Jimmy seemed barely able to keep his eyes open, though his gaze kept flickering back to Bobby, watching him. Making sure.

"Now, boy," he said firmly, determined to see this through no matter how badly he just wanted to tuck the child into a spare bed, maybe read him a bedtime story and kiss him on the forehead. "I want you to tell me how you knew who I was and how to find me. I don't remember meeting any Novaks, and I've been around some."

"I just... I know you, that's all." Jimmy shrugged, staring fixedly at his hot chocolate.

"There's no 'just' about it." Bobby huffed out a breath. "Either you have contacts somewhere that I want to know about, or something else is going on here."

"You thought I was a demon."

"I did think that, yes. I don't anymore. But I know something is going on."

Jimmy put his sandwich down on his plate and ripped off a piece of crust, squishing it between his fingers. "I... I can't say, Mr. Singer. I'm sorry."

"You can't or you won't? What kind of creature are you?"

Jimmy laughed at this, almost bitterly, but with an edge of tears. He pushed the plate away and looked up at Bobby, eyes too bright, too blue. "Just a boy, Mr. Singer. Just a little human boy. I...I know things. And I can do things, too."

Bobby stared at him, asking for a demonstration without saying a word. The boy gazed at him pleadingly for a moment, then slumped in defeat. He bit his lip and looked around, then nodded at the salt shaker on the other end of the table. "There."

"What?" Bobby asked, but he didn't have to wait long for an answer.

The boy lifted a hand, and he stared. His gaze was focused and intent and far, far too old. Blood started to trickle from his nose. And then the salt shaker flew off the table and smashed against the wall.

He fell back, gasping, and Bobby came around the table with a napkin and pressed it to his bleeding nose. "What the hell, boy?"

Jimmy mumbled something that sounded like "quite the opposite," but wouldn't elaborate when Bobby asked. He just lay limply against the back of the chair, pale and spent. It was clear that he just had nothing else to give.

Bobby held the back of his head with one hand, the other keeping the napkin where it was needed. "All right," he said. "You done convinced me. You say you need to talk to this John Winchester fella, I believe you. But I wasn't lying when I said I didn't know anyone by that name. You got any other ideas?"

The boy breathed in and out a few times. "The Roadhouse? Maybe if you left a message there..."

Bobby tilted his head. "That's a good idea. Any more?" He drew back the bloody napkin, saw that the boy's nose had quit gushing, and stood up again. Jimmy tilted his head back, staring wearily up at him.

"There's a psychic in Lawrence. Missouri. I can't remember her last name."

"I'll look into it." Bobby looked down at the boy, frowning. "What am I going to do with you?" he asked. Rhetorically, he was sure. "You got any folks? Besides that son of a bitch who was beating you, I mean."

Jimmy shook his head slowly from side to side, still letting it lean back against the chair. "My parents are dead and my home burned. I..." There was a slight shift in his eyes, like a sudden realization hitting. "And my brothers and sisters... I'm all alone, Mr. Singer." Tears welled up, swift, sudden, undeniable. "I can never go home. I can never go home, not ever."

His slender arms wrapped around his torso, holding tight, and then he was sobbing, torturous breaths hitching in his throat. It sounded like a hard one, a cry that had been coming for a long, long time and just wouldn't be pushed back anymore, weary and aching and full of grief. Bobby knew all about those kind of tears.

"Hey..." There wasn't any use in denying it anymore. Bobby was old and he was stubborn and he preferred his solitude, but there wasn't anything else he could do. He knelt on the floor by the chair and pulled the sobbing kid into his arms. "Hey, Jimmy. Hey. It's gonna be okay."

Jimmy cried for a long time, using up what little energy he'd had left. He ended up with his head limp on Bobby's shoulder, now soaked with snot and tears and saliva. It had been a hard cry, all right. One of the boy's arms was still tight around his stomach, but the other hand clutched Bobby's shirt in a hard little fist.

Bobby had rocked and soothed and murmured and done all he could, but he was glad it was over now. Poor kid was exhausted. It was time to see about that spare bed.

"Sorry, Mr. Singer." Jimmy sniffled quietly and pulled back, wiping his eyes and staring guiltily at Bobby's sodden shoulder.

"It's no big thing, boy. And why don't you just go ahead and call me Bobby, now."

He looked up, a faint spark of hope brightening those too-blue eyes. "Really?"

"I said so, didn't I? Now, we gotta see if any of my spare rooms are fit for company. You're gonna need a place to stay until we can get hold of this John Winchester of yours. That sound all right?"

"Yes sir." Jimmy nodded with as much energy as he could muster and stood up, then just about fell over before Bobby wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close to his side.

"Bobby," he corrected, leading them toward the door.

Jimmy leaned on him, damp dark head wetting what part of Bobby's shirt was still partially dry. "Uncle Bobby," he said, very softly.

This time, Bobby didn't correct him.

(End.)


	2. A Cleansing for My Humanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a coping mechanism, Bobby figured. The personality shifts were a little disturbing, though.

The first day, Bobby let Jimmy sleep all afternoon, but finally went and woke him up around supper time. The boy had accepted an old nightshirt of Bobby's and managed to change into it before falling into the spare room's bed, though it was clear that he would have been perfectly willing to go to sleep right there in his wet clothes, he was so completely done in. He only allowed Bobby to catch a fleeting glimpse of the injuries that covered him from head to toe, getting out of the wet clothes and throwing on the nightshirt it what seemed just a blink of the eye. Bobby had kept his eyes wide open, though, so he didn't miss it.

The boy slept curled up on his side, face toward the door. Bobby watched him for a moment, saw the dark circles of weariness under his eyes, and didn't want to wake him. Eventually, though, he walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, patting a blanket-covered knee. "Jimmy, boy. Time to wake up."

Jimmy didn't start when he woke, but an intense stillness came over him. The kid was holding his breath. Waiting.

Bobby puffed out a sigh. "It's just me, kid. There's soup downstairs, but I want you to give me a look at those bruises, first."

Jimmy turned his head slowly up and stared at Bobby warily, only his nose and eyes and a tuft of dark, tangled hair showing above the blanket.

Bobby held up the camera in his right hand. "For the police. You want that bastard to get what he's got comin', doncha?"

The boy held absolutely still, his breath barely even shifting the blanket up and down. The words were a whisper, still and rabbit-scared. "Please don't send me away."

"Not planning to." Bobby squeezed the knee his hand still rested on. "I'll send 'em in anonymously. But folks need to know, so no other foster kids get placed with him."

Jimmy was a brave kid, of course he was, Bobby had expected nothing less. With this reasoning he nodded and sat up, grunting with the effort but managing it on his own. The blanket pooled around his waist and the old shirt hung off one shoulder, showing a red-blue smudge on the bare chest.

Bobby reached out slowly, tacitly asking permission, and Jimmy nodded and looked away. The man got his fingers under the hem of fabric and pulled the shirt off, taking his time, letting the boy gradually come to terms with his wounds being seen by another person. Every inch of flesh thus revealed bore more contusions, more marks, more evidence of brutal, long-term abuse. Individually none of them looked all that bad, really, most already well on the way to healing. But taken collectively, and in these patterns...

The hunter really wanted to head to central Illinois, now, even though he knew that there was no hunt there, no demon, no ghost. He wanted to punch Les Baker in the face. And put a load of rock salt in his ass. And just, well, maybe break all of his fingers, make sure he could never do this to another person ever again.

Jimmy's breathing was ragged and rushed, his eyes wide, looking anywhere but at the man who was studying him and carefully running his knuckles over the bruises on his side.

"Shhh," Bobby said, gentling him the way he would a half-wild puppy. He packed away the anger for now, aware that it was no good here. "I gotta check your ribs for breaks. It's gonna hurt, I'm sorry, but you might need more help than I can give you."

"None of the bones are moving around anymore," Jimmy said, almost formally. "I'm in no danger."

"You let me be the judge of that, all right?"

Jimmy nodded and fixed his eyes on the blanket in his lap, and Bobby began the long, painful process of testing each bone for weakness, for cracks, pressing on the bruised flesh and feeling the give of the bone beneath. Before long the boy was panting harshly, gulping down the pain, and Bobby wished with all his heart that he could go faster and get this over with.

The thin little body suddenly went still under Bobby's hands. Jimmy sat up a little straighter, muscles relaxed and loose, letting the man work. Bobby looked up and found the blue eyes curious and detached, the face expressionless.

"Jimmy?"

"Yes?" The voice seemed different, too, but Bobby couldn't say how.

"Just checking," he muttered, and got back to it.

"There's no need for this, truly," Jimmy said, his voice calm and infinitely rational. "I'm going to be just fine."

"Yeah, well, humor me anyway."

A gentle sigh. "As you wish."

The kid was stoic for the rest of the exam, flinching only when Bobby skirted around a particularly nasty welt on his left shoulder blade. When Bobby lifted the camera again he just nodded and let the man take as many pictures as he needed, lifting his arms or tilting his head as requested. His face remained eerily smooth throughout.

Only when they went downstairs and Bobby ladeled up two huge bowls of his best minestrone soup, when Jimmy again sat at the kitchen table wrapped up in the old quilt that had probably been the first bit of comfort he'd been allowed in far too long... Only then did the ice melt. The shoulders came down and the expression lightened and the wary little boy returned, sniffing cautiously at his soup, then digging in with obvious relish. He took all the crackers and cheese and carrot sticks and juice that Bobby offered him, enjoying the food in a finger-licking, lip-smacking, leg-swinging way that did the man's heart good.

It was a coping mechanism, Bobby reasoned. Things got to be too much for the child and he just...took himself away for a little while. He certainly couldn't blame the kid for doing whatever it took to survive the things that had happened to him, that had been done to him.

Perhaps as Jimmy began to feel safe here, began to trust that he had found a harbor at last, the need for this would fade.

X

Bobby put his feelers out in the hunting community, but no one had heard of John Winchester. The name didn't ring a bell anywhere, but he got promises from all and sundry that they would contact Bobby Singer the second Winchester showed his head. Despite the lack of evidence, Bobby didn't doubt that he existed, and if Jimmy said he needed to talk to the guy, then he needed to talk to the guy.

It took him awhile to figure out which Lawrence the kid had been talking about, but he finally hit pay dirt after three days of calling around. "John Winchester?" said a psychic named Missouri Mosely in Lawrence, Kansas, her voice rich and warm even over the tinny distance of the telephone. "Yes, I know your boy. He came to me wanting to know what had killed his wife."

"Did you tell him?" Bobby asked. He felt a little shaky with victory, with vindication. Here was proof that Jimmy Novak knew what he was talking about. Well, proof beyond that telekinetic trick that had left the boy with a bloody nose.

"Didn't know," Missouri said frankly. "Knew it was somethin' evil, though. Mm hmm. Somethin' real bad. Told him a little about what's out there in the dark. Mercy, you never saw such a determined look in any man's eye, that I'll warrant you."

"Do you know where he is?"

"I'm sorry to tell you no, Mr. Singer. John Winchester took his boys and he headed right on out of Lawrence. Don't know where exactly, but I know he was going out to find more answers than I could give him."

Bobby paused. "His boys, you say?"

"Two little sons. Poor man, lost his wife and his boys' mother and his home and his purpose all in one night."

"Thank you, ma'am." Bobby poured all the gratitude he had into his voice. "You've been a big help. You ever hear from him again, you'll call me, won't you?"

She gave him her word and he gave her his number. When he lowered the phone, Jimmy was standing there, pale as deep winter, skinny arms wrapped as far around his middle as they would go.

"I know what killed his wife," the boy said, and stopped, swaying.

Bobby put down the phone and stood up from the desk, moving forward to put a steadying hand on his shoulder. "It's all right. You don't have to tell me."

Jimmy craned his head to look up at him, tilting it calmly to the side. "Part of me wants to," he said. "Part of me wants to tell you everything. Isn't that strange?"

Bobby gave him a smile, but he knew it was sad, hardly even wrinkling around his eyes. "Not so strange. You've been alone for a long time. Of course you want to talk to someone."

The boy nodded thoughtfully, looking away.

"But listen now, Jimmy." Bobby knelt on one knee, bring their eyes more on level. "You  _can_  tell me anything you want to, anytime you want to. You hear me? Anything you got to say, I want to hear it."

Jimmy nodded solemnly. "You're a good man, Bobby Singer."

Bobby had to clear his throat. "Kind of you to say."

He ruffled the boy's hair, and Jimmy didn't flinch away from his hand.

That was a good thing. Jimmy still slept curled up in a little ball and hugged himself a lot and looked worried most of the time, but it had only been three days and he had already stopped flinching when Bobby touched him.

X

The day after that was sunny, fluffy clouds sailing the blue sky, steady breeze ruffling the leaves in the trees around Bobby's property. Jimmy spent most of the day sitting under an old oak in the backyard, his back against the shaggy trunk, Bartholomew's head in his lap. The old dog had taken to the newcomer instantly, following the boy practically everywhere he went. Bobby might have been a little miffed at his old companion's abandonment if it hadn't been so obvious that this was exactly what Jimmy needed.

When sunset fell in shades of gold and crimson, the boy and dog moved inside, curling up next to the fire that Bobby lit every night, now. Jimmy always seemed to lean toward the flames the way a flower leaned toward the sun, basking in the glow and listening to the crackle. It was the only time Bobby had seen him smile yet, laying there with his head on Bartholomew's stomach and firelight playing over his face.

Bobby carried the book he'd been studying into the main room and sat down in an armchair next to the fire, watching them. The bruises on Jimmy's face and arms were almost completely faded now, but sometimes Bobby thought he could still see them. Jimmy glanced at him, then looked back to the fire.

"This fire is so tame," he said, reaching out a hand as if to test the warmth, then drawing it back. "So gentle and kind. Not at all like the fire that killed...that killed my parents."

Bobby shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. He hadn't been expecting that at all.

"It's amazing," Jimmy went on, dreamily. "The way you curb this destructive power, make it suitable for your use. I'm constantly astonished by human ingenuity."

"That's a big word for a little boy," Bobby said lightly, not sure what to do with that.

"Is it?" Jimmy looked at him, a wrinkle appearing on his smooth forehead. He seemed to be filing that away. Then he looked back to the fire. "You don't have to try to hide that book you're holding in your hand. I know it's a demonology text."

Bobby looked down at the book, realizing that he had spread his hands over the cover, shielding it. He huffed a little at his own squeamishness and moved his hand away. "You know demonology, do you?"

"I know all the demons," Jimmy said calmly. "Abbadon, Abraxas, Acham, Adramalech, Agares, Ahriman, Alastor, Alrinach, Alloces..."

"Okay, enough," Bobby cut in. Gooseflesh burned across the back of his neck and his upper arms, sharp and icy. "Is this part of the stuff you 'just know?'"

Jimmy looked at him over his shoulder. His blue eyes were strange in the firelight, dark, old, fey. "I know all the angels, too, if you'd rather hear about them."

"That's all right." Bobby shook his head. Angels weren't real. This must be Jimmy's idea of a joke.

Well, this side of Jimmy, anyway. The aspect that Bobby was beginning to think of as "old Jimmy," with his ancient eyes and his eerie calm. He much preferred young Jimmy, honestly. This persona was unsettling, held an edge of danger to him. Young Jimmy was sweet and gentle, whispering prayers and singing snatches of old hymns and Sunday School songs, delighted by food and the sunlight on his face, looking to Bobby as if he was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Old Jimmy, this shield, hardly seemed to belong in the world at all.

Jimmy let out a deep sigh, closed his eyes in a long, slow blink. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"'S not your fault," Bobby said gruffly. He hesitated, then got off his chair and sat next to Jimmy's legs on the floor, reaching out to give his ankle a warm squeeze. "No need to apologize, kiddo. I just want you to be yourself, that's all."

Jimmy turned over on his back, making Bartholomew huff when his head hit the dog's stomach in a different place. His eyes were huge, and Bobby felt like he might get trapped in them. "I am being myself, truly. This is who I am now. I can do things that shouldn't be possible and I know things that little boys shouldn't know, and...and..." He stopped, choking on it all, and closed his eyes.

"And it's all right." Bobby rubbed his ankle. "It is. You've been through things that no one should have to go through and it messed you up a little, but that's all right. There's nothing wrong with you. So you can move a saltshaker without touching it." He scoffed and made a motion with his hand as if tossing the idea away, useless. "No skin off my nose. So you know the names of the demons, and probably lots of other things about them that would make a grown man's head spin. Not hurting anybody, is it? It's just some esoteric knowledge, that's all. I study it all the time. Nothing strange about it."

Jimmy had opened his eyes to watch the man's little performance of  _Irritable Curmudgeon Talks About Telekinesis and Demonology,_  and now he gave Bobby a smile, the first one that had ever been just for him. "I know about angels, too, don't forget. And a lot about the future."

"Ain't no thing." Bobby smiled back, warm all the way through. "Do you know where John Winchester is?"

He meant it to be teasing, but Jimmy took the question seriously, sighing and looking away again. "I know a lot of things, Uncle Bobby," he said mournfully. "Probably too much. But I don't know everything."

"Well, that's all right, too," Bobby said.

And he thought that maybe the boy was beginning to believe it.

X

About a week and a half after Jimmy started living the spare room, Bobby got tired of constantly washing and re-washing the same stained, ragged little-boy outfit and took him shopping in Sioux Falls. Jimmy's bruises were all but gone then and he had shed some of his hunted look, his animal wariness, though he didn't stray from Bobby's side for the entirety of the trip. Still, shopping was exhausting and the kid was sleeping in the truck by the end when Bobby made his usual rounds of the used bookstores, looking for volumes he was missing.

Almost as an afterthought, he stopped at a Barnes & Noble, too, well-aware that they wouldn't have any of the old books he was looking for. He picked up a few books about child abuse and its effects, and a copy of The Chronicles of Narnia for Jimmy. It seemed like something the kid would like.

Later that evening when Bobby presented him with the boxed set, Jimmy just stood still, staring, for what seemed like a very long time. Bobby started to think that maybe he had picked the wrong books. Or maybe the kid didn't even  _like_  books. But that was almost impossible for Bobby to contemplate.

Then the boy reached forward and slowly traced the spines with hesitant fingers. "These are my favorite books in the whole world. My mom used to read them to me all the time. Mine burned up in the fire."

He looked up, his eyes bright with tears, but he was smiling. "Thank you, Uncle Bobby."

He threw his arms around Bobby's gut in a fierce hug, so hard it made the man grunt, then ran off with the books so fast that Bobby hardly had time to gasp out a "Welcome!" before the boy was gone.

Later, when he was putting away Jimmy's new clothes, Bobby saw The Chronicles of Narnia standing in a place of high prominence on the spare room's dresser. It made him smile, though he quickly cleared his throat and hid it away. He also found a stash of crackers, two apples, and a banana hidden in the dresser drawers, but he left those alone.

X

Jimmy usually made himself scarce when Bobby had customers. Bobby certainly understood this, since most of the folks who came to the junkyard for parts or service were rough-looking, rough-talking men who probably had more than a passing resemblance to Les Baker, that bastard. It was miracle enough that the boy had taken to Bobby, let alone any random stranger who came to Singer Salvage.

This customer was a lady, though, looking for a new side mirror for her beat-up old Ford. She had her daughter with her, maybe four years old, pigtails and ribbons and a teddy bear clutched under one arm. Bobby saw Jimmy peeking around the corner of the house, watching with a fixed fascination that might have been disturbing if it wasn't so innocently curious.

While Bobby took the customer around the yard to look at likely candidates, Jimmy made his way toward the little girl with halting steps, Bartholomew pressing against his legs in silent support. The adults returned from their tour of rusting steel to find the boy kneeling in the dirt, entertaining the little girl with finger games. The girl-child laughed and clapped, wiped her snotty nose on her arm, and ended it by giving Jimmy a grubby, sticky kiss right on the lips. The mother bought a mirror that Bobby wasn't even sure would work for her car. Bobby smiled, hoping it was hidden in his beard.

This turned out to be a bad thing. By the next morning Jimmy was coughing, sneezing, shivering and sweating, somehow managing to do all four at the same time. He'd obviously caught some deadly disease from that little rugrat, and Bobby cursed the day he hadn't put up signs that said  _NO CHILDREN ALLOWED_  all around the salvage yard.

Even old Jimmy was no match for the common cold, it seemed. The stoic persona was already in place by the time Bobby went upstairs to find out why his young guest was taking so long to come down for breakfast. (It was the child's third favorite time of day, only narrowly beaten by lunch and supper, so Bobby knew something was up when he was late.) He found the boy pale and shaking, eyes red with sleeplessness and a pile of used tissues on the floor.

Old Jimmy told him, quite pathetically, "This is extremely miserable, Uncle Bobby," then immediately doubled over in a coughing fit.

"I know. I know, kid." Bobby patted his back sympathetically, then went downstairs for supplies.

Young Jimmy didn't come back until it was safe, three days later. Bobby missed him, but he found himself warming to old Jimmy in the meantime. The poor kid was just so gol-durned  _grateful_  for every little thing Bobby did, continually astonished that the man would do anything to care for him.

Which made sense, Bobby supposed, for a personality that had obviously come into being for the sole purpose of protecting young Jimmy. He was certain that old Jimmy had been the one who beat up that bastard and got them away from that place. And protecting young Jimmy was a mission Bobby could get behind, so they had that in common.

He sat by the bed with his hand on the boy's hot forehead, singing all the Johnny Cash he could remember, which included a few hymns. Old Jimmy closed his eyes and hummed along, sometimes weak and sometimes strong, sometimes in unison and sometimes in harmony, his voice phlegmy and choked but still sweet for all that. And Bobby knew that he had gotten in way over his head.

X

It all went to hell the night Bobby got drunk. He hadn't meant to do it. He always had a little nip of whiskey before he went to bed, which was usually long after Jimmy had already retired to his room. That night, though, he was thinking about things he shouldn't think about, getting all wrapped up in old grief, old guilt, and one thing led to another. He had far more than one nip, and he went over the edge from buzzed to tipsy to  _God-damned inebriated_  much more quickly than he usually did.

Then, through bleary vision, he saw Jimmy standing in front of him, young face terrible with displeasure. This was old Jimmy, Bobby knew, even through the haze of drink. Most people probably wouldn't be able to tell the difference, but Bobby Singer was a scholar, and he'd been studying Jimmy Novak for three weeks now.

"Bobby Singer, you must  _stop this,"_  the boy declared, and Bobby automatically sat up straighter.

"What now?"

"Please, Mr. Singer, stop!" His face crumpled and his voice heightened and this was young Jimmy, small and scared and tearful. "Please, please stop. Don't be like Mr. Baker, please don't!"

Bobby had never wanted to see that expression on the kid's face again, let alone be the cause of it. And Jimmy hadn't called him "Mr. Singer" since that first day. It was always "Uncle" now, and Bobby liked that, damn it, he really liked it and he didn't want it to go away.

"Jimmy..." He reached out, clumsy, heart sinking like stone in his chest. "Kid..."

Jimmy stumbled away from his hand, flinching again, and Bobby grunted in pain and curled the hand back in toward himself. He waited for old Jimmy to return, to protect young Jimmy from this pain, too, but the shield didn't show up. It was Jimmy, just Jimmy, panting and white-faced, pressed against the wall. "Don't touch me, please don't touch me." And his voice was shrill with terror.

"Jimmy, Jimmy, I'd never hurt ya, swear, I wou...I woudn', Jimmy, I would never." Bobby heard the desperation in his voice, too.

Jimmy shook his head from side to side, almost convulsively. "Mr. Baker was nice at first, too. He was nice. He didn't hurt me for almost two weeks. And then he got drunk, he got drunk and it started and it never stopped. It never stopped!"

"Jimmy..." Bobby's hand clenched in his hair, just needing something to clutch, to tear. The pain in his scalp brought him back to himself a little more. "That bastard... That bastard isn' me, Jimmy. We..." He concentrated on enunciation, making each syllable precise. "We are not the same. I would never hurt you. Not sober, not drunk, not ever."

The boy shook his head again, so hard that Bobby's head ached in sympathy. "How can I believe that? How I can believe anything you say? You're a  _drunk."_

"Only sometimes," Bobby said earnestly. "I never lied to ya, Jimmy. I never lied and I ain't gonna start now."

Jimmy just kept shaking his head, looking away in despair. He slid sideways along the wall, as far from Bobby as he could get. "Cast...Castiel says I should give you another chance but I don't know, Mr. Singer, I don't know. I'm going back to bed. Please don't follow me." As soon as he was far enough away he ran, clattering up the stairs in a total panic.

Bobby stared after him, almost entirely sober again. The old grief and guilt were sharp now, new.

He'd ruined everything.

He got up and poured all the whiskey down the kitchen sink. Then he went through the cupboards and threw out the rest of the alcohol, too. There was quite a bit of it. He hadn't realized that he'd amassed such a stash. Jimmy wasn't the only one hoarding, it seemed.

Bobby fell asleep on the couch, mind still whirling with sick, insistent pain, trying to find a way out of this mess. Trying to figure out when the kid had become so important to him, and what he was supposed to do about it. If Jimmy flinched away from him, if he didn't call him "Uncle" anymore... Bobby didn't know what he would do. He was a broken-down old man at the age of thirty-four and he didn't know what he would do if this weird, schizo, half-psychic kid was afraid of him and never trusted him again.

Three hours later he was woken by a scream and stumbled automatically to his feet, looking for his shotgun. He felt sober now, adrenaline rushing through his veins, and that scream had come from Jimmy. Couldn't find the shotgun fast enough so he grabbed a Bowie knife from the middle desk drawer and took the stairs two at a time.

He flipped on the light in Jimmy's room to find the boy sitting up, bowed over, hands covering his face, shaking and sweating. Bobby swept the room with a glance and didn't see a threat, just night-time shadows and the oak tree standing sentinel outside the window. Bartholomew had been sleeping at the foot of Jimmy's bed, and he was turning circles on the floor, whining, but not pointing at any danger. Just upset because the kid was upset, because Jimmy had had a nightmare.

Bobby put down the knife and approached the bed slowly, one hand outstretched in cautious offering. "Jimmy? Hey, boy, it's just me..."

Jimmy pulled his hands down his face, revealing tear-filled eyes. "Uncle Bobby?"

Bobby's heart just about broke, and he crossed the remaining distance in about one step. "I'm here. I'm here, Jimmy, I'm not going anywhere."

"They died in the smoke, Uncle Bobby," the boy sobbed, completely unable to cope with this, not now, not ever. For once Bobby couldn't tell if this was old Jimmy or young Jimmy or maybe both and it didn't matter, it didn't matter, no kid could deal with this. "My mommy and my daddy, they died in the smoke. And my sisters and brothers... They're all gone, they're all gone and I'm all that's left and I'm not enough. I'm not  _enough."_

"Aw, Jimmy, Jimmy..." Bobby sat on the edge of the bed and wrapped the boy up and Jimmy didn't resist, didn't flinch. "'Course you are, Jimmy, 'course you're enough. You're more than enough. You're Jimmy Novak and you're...you're some kid, that's what you are. You're Jimmy, you're  _my_  Jimmy, and you're more than enough for anybody. You really are."

It took a long time, but eventually it seemed like maybe Jimmy believed it. Or at least Bobby's words were enough, for now.

X

Much later, Bobby looked it up, and found out that Castiel was the angel of Thursday. And Jimmy had never had any siblings.

That was much later, though.

X

When four weeks had passed and it became painfully clear that Bobby didn't want Jimmy to leave and Jimmy didn't want to leave, either, Robert Singer petitioned the state of Illinois for custody rights and guardianship of James Novak.

(End)


	3. While Children Softly Fold Away Their Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm a hunter," Bobby said. "Just another hunter, Winchester. I don't want anything from you. But, well, I've got this kid here. He says he needs to talk to you. He says he knows what killed your wife."

Jimmy had been in a good mood all day, running around the house with Bartholomew at his heels, tail wagging and collar jingling. He was singing a song Bobby didn't pay much attention to, something about people building houses on rocks and sand, his voice loud and free and joyful. Bobby, working on invoices at his desk, rubbed a hand over his forehead and reminded himself that he wanted this. He was beginning to realize that going from hermit to hermit-with-a-kid in such a short period of time was going to take some adjustment.

The boy happened to be passing through the study when the phone rang, and he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at it. The song died on his lips and his face went white and his body was suddenly smaller, diminished, transformed from carefree youngster to wary survivor before the first ring had finished jangling in the air.

Bobby gave the phone a baleful look. He'd spent a lot of time yelling into that thing over the past month or so, since he'd decided that the lost, hurt kid who showed up on his doorstep in early June might as well stay as long as he wanted. At the South Dakota social workers: "Whaddya mean, 'ulterior motive'? I found the boy after he ran away from that bastard who was beating him, and I like the kid and he likes me and I want 'im to stay and he wants to stay too. The poor boy's got nothing and no one and he needs something and someone. What more motive do I need? He's a sweet kid and he deserves better than he got, so shut your yappers and  _do your job."_

At the Illinois social workers: "Hey, you're the ones who fell down on the job, here. You placed an innocent kid with a drunken bastard who abused him brutally and you never noticed, so I don't get where you come off questioning me. My home's a hell of a lot more stable than that one ever was, even if I am self-employed and not part of a nuclear family. I'm here cleaning up after your mess, not the other way around, so you can just close this 'line of inquiry' right the hell now."

At the Illinois police: "Oh, that bastard is full of bullshit and you know it. Jimmy's less'n five feet tall 'n' fly-weight. No way he coulda given Baker those bruises. And you saw the photos I sent ya...no defensive wounds on the boy at all, not even a bruised knuckle, except where that bastard slammed his hand in a door. Jimmy says someone else came and started fighting him, and Jimmy took it for the God-given opportunity it was and got the hell out of Dodge. I've got no reason to disbelieve the kid, and neither do you. He's a kind, gentle boy who wouldn't know what to do with a falsehood if it ate his peanut butter sandwich, and Baker's a drunk who beats up little kids. You do the math."

Box of idjits, the bunch of 'em.

Worst had been when the local social workers kept making noises about "proper procedure" and insisted on moving Jimmy into a temporary foster home until Bobby could get certified. Being separated like that had been...awful, and Bobby never wanted to do it again. When poor Jimmy woke the house three nights in a row screaming from nightmares and crying for Uncle Bobby, though, they finally caught a clue and sent Jimmy back to Bobby for a "visit" that had yet to end.

So they both looked at the phone with trepidation, and Bobby was already getting mad just in case he needed to be. Jimmy gave him a pleading look, and Bobby reached over to grab his shoulder, pulling him to his side. "It's gonna be all right, boy," he said softly, in between rings, and Jimmy nodded, believing him as always.

Bobby picked up the phone.

"Who the fuck are you?" demanded the man on the other end, his voice a full-throated bellow. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Bobby blinked, then felt his own anger rise to meet this. "Listen, jackass, I don't know what this is about, but you just watch your language now." Jimmy pressed up against his side, trembling, and Bobby slung an arm around his shoulders and held him close. He considered, then went on. "And if this is Les Baker, you can just eat shit and die, you bastard."

"What? No." The man sounded startled, but he gathered his fury for another attack. "This is the third time I've met a guy who heard my name and said, 'Winchester? Oh, Bobby Singer's looking for ya. Let me get you his number.'"

Jimmy looked sharply up, his eyes wide and blue.

"Look," Winchester went on, "I don't know who you are and I don't care. You stay the hell away from me. If you ever come anywhere near me or my boys, I'll rip your heart out through your throat and stomp it on the ground."

Bobby was looking at Jimmy, and he could feel the tension coursing through the kid, his breath speeding up. "Winchester?" he said cautiously. "John Winchester?"

"Yeah, that's me." The man's voice was pure acid, but Bobby heard more than anger, now. That was fear. Fear for his kids, against the perceived threat of Bobby Singer. Bobby got that, he did. "Who are you and what do you want from me?"

"I'm a hunter," Bobby said firmly. "Just another hunter, Winchester. I don't want anything from you. But, well, I've got this kid here." He gave Jimmy a reassuring squeeze. "He says he needs to talk to you. He says he knows what killed your wife."

The was a long stretch of silence from the phone.

"A kid?" Winchester said at last. The anger was gone from his voice, and so was most of the fear. "A kid knows what killed Mary? How can a kid possibly..."

"You've met Missouri Mosely," Bobby cut in. "You know psychics are real."

"Yeah, but she couldn't see that, couldn't see what..." The guy was starting to break down. "Missouri couldn't tell me..."

"This boy is different," Bobby said. "Jimmy Novak. He's special."

Jimmy gave him a smile. Then, over the sound of John Winchester's silence, he motioned for the phone. Bobby gave it to him, still keeping an arm tight around his shoulders.

"John Winchester?" Jimmy said. His voice was calm, sweet. Old Jimmy taking over in this moment of crisis. "Is Dean there?"

"Is...what?" the man repeated faintly.

"Is Dean there? Please, I need to talk to him. The last time I saw him he was..." Jimmy pressed a slender hand over his eyes, shuddering.

"Dean doesn't talk to strangers," Winchester said flatly. "Dean hardly talks at all."

"May I talk to him though, please? Please?"

Another moment of silence, then Bobby heard the distant sounds of rustling movement. "Here," Winchester said, Bobby barely able to hear the single syllable.

Jimmy hugged himself with one arm, the other holding the phone, and rested his head on Bobby's shoulder. "Hello, Dean."

More silence.

"You don't have to talk," he said after a moment. "I just wanted to... My name is Jimmy. I'm very much looking forward to meeting you."

Bobby strained his ears, but heard nothing on the other end of the line.

Jimmy cleared his throat and stood up straighter, his voice suddenly firm, determined. "We're going to be friends, Dean. We're going to be very good friends."

Bobby thought he could hear the other boy breathing. Then... "Jimmy?"

The voice was so small, so high, so young.

"That's me." He smiled, old Jimmy merging into young Jimmy. Bobby had no idea which personality was dominant at this moment. It didn't seem to matter. "I'll see you soon."

He gave the phone back to Bobby, then ran off singing at the top of his lungs, Bartholomew clattering after him. Bobby stared for a moment, then cleared his throat awkwardly into the phone. "Winchester?"

A slight hesitation, then, "Yeah."

"I think the kids have decided we should meet."

"Yeah. Yeah, I think they have."

"So, uh, let me give you directions to my place."

"Sure."

X

Bobby sat on the porch swing, slowly rocking back and forth, staring out at the dusty August sun setting over the heaps of junked cars. So they had found the mythical John Winchester. It hardly seemed real.

He felt a warm presence and looked down in time to see Jimmy sit down beside him, then squirm under Bobby's arm and rest against his side, smiling up at him with those blue, blue eyes.

Bobby smiled back. "Hey, kid."

Jimmy seemed to be doing a lot more of that, lately. Smiling. Ever since he'd come back from that temporary foster home and his case worker told him that he could stay with Bobby if he wanted, but to be sure and call her if he had any problems. She had stuck about a dozen business cards in various pockets of Jimmy's jeans, jacket, and shirt, and once she'd left he had grinned ear to ear and ripped up every last one.

Bobby might have been irritated at the implied mistrust in him, her making sure that Jimmy could call for help if things went wrong like they so obviously expected them to. But really, he was just glad that someone was finally looking out for the boy, after the unforgivable way they'd failed him in Illinois. And yeah, if Bobby didn't know it was him, he might be suspicious of a single man seeking guardianship of an orphaned kid, too.

"Whatcha thinking about, Uncle Bobby?"

He chuckled and tugged the kid closer against his side. "Just about how glad I am to have you here. How'd you know to come to me, anyway? There must have been other people, closer to you, who could have helped you find Winchester."

Jimmy shrugged. "I just knew, that's all. I knew you would be best."

"And now you've found him." Bobby didn't sigh, damn it. He wasn't that much of a sentimentalist. "You'll be seeing him in a few days. You kept saying you needed to talk to him, and now you finally will."

"Yeah." Jimmy went quiet, staring out at the sun.

"What are you going to say?"

Jimmy pondered this with great gravity. "I'm going to tell him about the future."

And nothing could be more terrifying than that.

X

The house was in the middle of a salvage yard, standing amidst the junkers like a boulder in a stormy sea. John stared up at it uneasily as he slowly pulled the Impala up in the front yard, which barely deserved the name, more weeds and dirt than grass.

They were waiting for him on the front porch, a bearded redneck with his arm around a dark-haired kid, both staring at John as if he was the second coming. Sammy gurgled in his car seat, and John looked back at them. Dean was quiet in his booster seat, staring out the window and craning his shaggy gold-brown head to look up at the house. Sammy waved his arms and legs, probably just glad that the car was finally coming to a stop, which meant that he might be able to get out soon.

"Stay in the car," John ordered his eldest. "Look out for your brother."

He didn't know why he added the second one. Dean always looked out for Sammy, gave him more words than the rest of the world combined, let John know when he needed fed or changed and sometimes even tried to do it himself. Sometimes it seemed like looking out for Sammy was all Dean cared about. But at least he cared about something.

John stepped out of the car and slowly approached the house. "Singer?"

The redneck nodded and tipped his chin to the boy. "This is Jimmy. He's the reason we're all here, I guess."

Jimmy shook his head solemnly, looking up at the two men without a hint of anxiety, as if they were equals. "You would have met in a few years anyway. I only hastened events."

The kid's eyes startled John a bit. They were a sharp, intelligent blue, piercing and calm and too old for his face. Did all psychics look like that, or just kid ones? Missouri had been far more welcoming and encouraging, despite the horror of her honesty.

Singer was staring at the car, forehead wrinkling, mouth pulling down in a frown. "You just gonna leave your kids in there? It after noon in the middle of August."

John looked back at the car. Dean's little nose was pressed snub against the window, and his eyes were huge. He didn't seem nervous of the strangers, as John had expected-he looked eager to meet them, mutely pleading for his dad to let him out of his cage so he could come play.

Shoulders slumping, John reached back and made the all-clear signal with one hand. Those big eyes brightened, and in seconds Dean was climbing out of the car and making a beeline for the porch. Kid had always been clever with buckles and latches.

Once he reached his father's side, Dean grabbed a fistful of John's coat and gave it a tug, then pointed back at the car door he'd left hanging open. "What, you didn't get Sammy yourself?" Ever since the baby had started walking, Dean had seemed to believe that Sammy could follow Dean anywhere, and facilitated this whenever possible.

But this time he'd left Sammy in the car.

Huh.

Dean tugged John's jacket again.

"You want me to go get him?"

A tiny nod, but Dean's eyes remained fixed. He was staring at Jimmy with an intense, unsettling level of concentration, and Jimmy was staring right back.

John didn't want to leave Sammy in the car, but he also didn't want to leave Dean alone with this weird psychic kid.

They stood there in this odd Mexican stand-off for about two seconds before Bobby Singer made an exasperated noise that sounded distinctly bear-like. "Oh, fer cryin'...  _I'll_  get the baby, ya idjits."

He lumbered off to the car with a big, shaggy black dog trotting behind him. John glanced after him, still half-wanting to follow, but Jimmy Novak was standing there staring at his vulnerable, silent kid, and he couldn't.

"How old are you, Dean?" Jimmy asked, his voice somehow lighter now.

Dean held up five fingers.

"I'm ten." The other boy held up both hands. "That's two times five. Neat, huh?"

Dean nodded.

"Do you like dogs?" Jimmy pointed at the black monstrosity now coming back toward the house behind Bobby Singer, who was cradling a grinning, drooling Sammy in his arms with surprising competence. "That's Bartholomew. He's my best friend, besides Uncle Bobby. Or he has been up till now, anyway. He's a good dog. He really likes to snuggle. Want to see?"

Dean nodded again. He let go of John's coat and reached that hand toward Jimmy, and the older boy took it gently. "Come on. I have so much to show you."

The two children brushed by John as they moved down the porch steps, barely even acknowledging him. John turned around to watch them go, and Bobby joined him on the porch, Sammy babbling gleefully against his shoulder.

"Young Jimmy does have a way with kids," the hunter said thoughtfully.

John gave him a narrow look. "What do you mean? Jimmy  _is_  a kid."

"Most of the time, yeah."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Bobby shook his head and just motioned for John to come inside. "Come on. I've got coffee on. The boys'll be busy awhile."

John followed him. Those were the magic words. Besides the fact, of course, that Singer was still holding his baby. He couldn't help but complain, though. "I think there's something wrong with your nephew. You sure Dean's safe with him?"

Bobby sighed as he led the way down a short passage to the kitchen. John's eyes widened, taking in the books and papers and occult bric-a-brac jammed into every corner of Singer's house. The man lived in a very old, very crowded library.

"He's not actually my nephew," Bobby said. "Well, not biologically. But there's nothing wrong with him. And yes, I'm sure that Dean is perfectly safe with him."

Singer moved toward the coffee pot gurgling cheerfully on the counter, and John scowled and plucked Sammy away from him, them reluctantly sat at the table and waited for his coffee. "I think you have some explaining to do, Singer."

"You take it black?" Bobby held up a mug with an expectant quirk of one eyebrow.

"One sugar," John said grudgingly. "Singer..."

"I know, I know. This is all new and scary to you and you just want someone to lay it out on the line for you. I get it, I do. I became a hunter after my wife died from supernatural causes, too."

Bobby finished fixing the coffee and brought it over to the table, sitting across from John and sliding his mug to him across the Formica surface.

John picked up his coffee and took a sip, careful to keep it away from Sammy, who was squirming to be let down. He didn't want to admit that Singer was right about him, but he was. "I just don't get how a kid can know about me and my family when we've never even met before."

"Oh, I don't understand it either. And neither does Jimmy, I don't think. The way he says it, he just  _knows_  stuff, that's all, and then has to figure out what to do with it. Luckily for you, he seems to want to help you with this knowledge, instead of packing it away and ignoring it, or sitting curled up in a corner in a little ball of trauma. Which was equally likely, given what the poor kid has gone through."

John stared down at his coffee. Part of him wanted to ask for clarification on that one, and part of him didn't want to know. At all. His family had been through enough. No need to borrow someone else's trouble.

"I was a little surprised that he wanted to play with Dean before talking to you," Bobby went on, musingly, staring out the window as he drank his coffee. "Talking to John Winchester has been his most important goal from the moment he showed up at my door looking like a drowned cat."

John opened his mouth, then blinked. "Don't you mean drowned  _rat?"_

"Nah. Drowned cats look much more pitiful. Which he did."

"Deeeee..." Sammy garbled, straining toward the door with his chubby fingers squeezing open and shut. John looked down at him.

"Yeah, Dean," he said, and looked up at Singer again. "Why is your boy so focused on my son? It's creepy."

Bobby shrugged. "My guess is that Jimmy sees the future in flashes. Visions. He certainly has enough nightmares and he hardly ever talks about them. Somehow he's gotten to know you and your family through this psychic shit, and in his mind he and Dean are already friends, have been for awhile. It's the way he talks about him, all, 'Dean always says that...' or 'When Dean and Sam did this...' Yeah, it's a little weird, but he can't help it. And I know he doesn't mean you any harm."

They were silent for a moment, and John did his best to absorb this strangeness. His life had been pretty thoroughly screwed up since he lost Mary, but this was an extra level of pure insanity.

"And I think..." Bobby said slowly, his jaw working as if he was eating something chewy. "I think maybe in the last vision or whatever, the last time he saw Dean, your boy was dead. And Jimmy, he's had enough death to last him."

John finally set Sammy down on the floor, so he could cover his eyes with his hand. God, he couldn't even imagine what he would do if he lost Dean or Sammy. It would kill him, just kill him. Sammy babbled happily and toddled away across the kitchen floor, and John concentrated on that sound, the life in it, his baby boy strong and well and alive.

"What do you think the kid wants to tell me so bad?" he asked eventually.

"He said he's going to tell you about the future. I guess he's hoping you can change it."

John drank his coffee and tried to think about something else.

Eventually they heard the screen door slam, children giggling, dog-claws skittering on the wood floor of Bobby's entryway. John stood and moved to the kitchen door, saw Dean on the floor playing with Bartholomew. Jimmy was already moving toward John, his little face solemn and calm and utterly still. John could hardly believe that he'd heard the kid giggling just seconds before.

"John Winchester," Jimmy said, stopping by the kitchen doorway and gazing up at him with strangely regal authority. "We need to talk."

"You can use the study," Bobby Singer said, not glancing up from where he was valiantly struggling to keep Sammy out of his lower cupboards.

Jimmy led the way, and John followed.

X

They had been in the study for a long time. Bobby tried not to think about it, fully occupied with keeping the Winchester boys out of trouble. Dean and Bartholomew had taken to each other like two ticks on a hound-dog, so that was all right, but Sammy's little fingers seemed to be everywhere at once. Bobby had never child-proofed his place-never needed to, much as he might have once  _liked_  to have the need-and it was all open to the baby's unquenchable curiosity. Eventually Bobby got the little one set with dropping a handful of washers into a Cool Whip container, dumping them out, and starting over (a process the tiny boy found infinitely fascinating), and called it good.

The first noise he heard from the study sounded like muffled shouting. He snapped his head up in time to see John Winchester emerge and stomp toward the kitchen, face black and glowering. He pushed past Bobby into the kitchen and immediately started going through his fridge and cupboards.

Bobby leaned against the wall on one shoulder and watched him, arms crossed over his chest. The boys kept playing, evidently used to this.

"What the...?" After several minutes of fruitless searching, John turned his glare to Bobby. "Where's your alcohol? Don't tell me a man like you doesn't even keep a stock of beer."

Bobby's jaw worked. "Whiskey is my poison of choice, actually. But no, no alcohol in the house. Not with Jimmy here."

"The hell?" Winchester stood still with his back against the sink, hands raised in helpless bewilderment. "I have kids, too. Doesn't stop me from knocking back a brew when I need one."

"Yeah, well, he's not exactly my kid." Bobby went around the kitchen, closing all the cupboard doors. "Not exactly. And before he came looking for me, Jimmy had a foster dad who was a drunk."

John just stared at him, still not getting it.

"A drunk foster dad," Bobby repeated. "A drunk foster dad who beat him. Beat him, slammed his hand in a door, locked him in a closet, and I don't even know what else. So yeah, I used to have alcohol in the house. Probably could have opened my own liquor store. But I don't have it anymore, and if you want some you're gonna have to go somewhere else."

"Oh." Winchester's eyes strayed to his own boys, playing on the floor, reasonably happy despite the turn their lives had taken. "Well, that explains that, then."

"Explains what?" Bobby asked, suddenly suspicious.

"Um. I might have yelled. A little. And waved my arms around. Some. And, uh, Jimmy maybe didn't react that well. Maybe. I kind of left him in a...a state."

"A  _state?"_  Bobby repeated incredulously. "You left him in a  _state?_  And then you came out here looking for a drink?"

"I...might have done that, yeah."

Only the very sheepish look on Winchester's young face, and the fact that his kids were in the room, kept Bobby from punching him in his stupid nose. His voice was low, pitched for Winchester's ears alone. "I have just a few  _simple_  rules for getting along with me. All the gov'mint idjits who've been coming around in the last month seem to've figured it out, so I expect you might be able to get it through your thick skull, too. Number one, be nice to Jimmy. Number two, be nice to my dog. Number three,  _be nice to Jimmy._  You got that, or is that too high for you to count?"

John nodded. "I got it."

"Good. Stay here." Bobby spun on his heel and half-walked, half-ran to the study.

Jimmy was in a  _state,_  all right. He was curled up as small as he could get in the chair farthest from the door, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them, face white, eyes closed, face sweaty. He was shaking like a mouse in a live trap.

"A  _state,_  he says," Bobby muttered. "I'd like to leave him in a  _state._  Jackass."

It was a form of shock, Bobby saw, and he could only come up with one way to deal with it. He scooped the Jimmy-ball into his arms and sat in the chair, folding the kid into his lap as he went. "Aw, Jimmy," he murmured, briskly rubbing the rigid back. "Just can't catch a break, can ya?"

After a few moments the boy went limp and loose against him, a breathy sigh threading out between shaky lips. "Sorry," he whispered.

Bobby wrapped a hand around his head and held him close. "What'd you do? What did  _he_  do?"

"I..." Jimmy licked his lips, and the trembling began to fade. "I told him what he had to do. John Winchester doesn't like being told what to do."

"Yeah, I gathered that. He scared ya, huh?"

"It was...involuntary, this reaction." Jimmy's knees slid down from his chest, though his head remained on Bobby's shoulder. "I know I should be stronger, but this body has...involuntary reactions." He looked up and gave Bobby a gloomy smile. "He acted like...he acted like that and I acted the way I always did, back then. Sometimes it helped. I know it's foolish."

"Nah. It's the least foolish thing in the world. But you're okay now?"

Jimmy nodded slowly. "I'm tired, though."

"Perfectly natural."

They didn't move for awhile. Just resting.

A loud, awkward clearing of a throat interrupted the peace, and they looked up to see John Winchester holding a steaming mug. Dean peeked out from behind his legs, wide-eyed and cautious.

"I saw you had some hot chocolate in the cupboard." John held it out with a hopeful smile. "Thought it might help."

Jimmy reached for the mug immediately, beckoning with all four fingers. He loved hot chocolate. He was also very forgiving, Bobby had noticed, but especially when the peace offering involved food.

John watched him drink it with some gratification and more guilt. "I didn't mean to scare you, buddy."

"Yes, you did," Jimmy said reasonably. "You just didn't meant to scare me that much."

"Yeah." John smiled thinly. "But I hope you know I would never hurt you. I would never hurt any kid."

"I know." Jimmy paused, tracing a finger around the rim of his mug. "Intellectually, I know."

Bobby nudged his shoulder. "Big word, little guy." Old Jimmy always seemed to appreciate being told when he was acting oddly for his age. Over the past couple of months he'd gotten much better at impersonating young Jimmy, the better for keeping him safe, off the radar. It was sometimes hard for even Bobby to tell which persona was present at any given moment.

He knew that this should be a good thing. The cure for multiple personalities was to integrate them, make the person suffering the disorder whole. He tried to ignore the tiny voice deep inside that insisted that this might not be such a good thing, after all.

"Wanna hug Jimmy," said a tiny voice, and Bobby looked over in surprise. It was the first time he'd heard Dean speak since they arrived.

John looked startled, too, but he moved aside to give his son access. "Sure, kiddo."

Jimmy slid off Bobby's lap and set his hot chocolate aside so he could lean down and accept a big, exuberant hug from the little boy. "I'm okay, Dean," he said softly.

"Good." Tiny arms squeezed around the older kid's neck, and Dean closed his eyes and held on tight.

And when they were done, they ran off to play with the dog.

X

The boys were asleep at last, Dean and Jimmy in Jimmy's bed, Sammy in the portable bassinet John hauled around in his boat of a car. After the initial problems, everyone had gotten along like a house afire. Even Bobby and John had found that they had plenty to talk about, once they got past the "Don't mess with my kid!", "Don't mess with  _my_  kid!" stage.

After dark, John had driven off and come back with a six-pack. "If we drink it sitting on the Impala, it won't be in the house," he told Bobby very seriously, though a suspicious twinkle glimmered in his eye.

Bobby felt like a kid again, sitting with a buddy on the hood of an old car, drinking warm beer straight from the can and hoping not to get caught. He considered himself to be a tough old bastard, but Jimmy's disappointment was nigh unbearable.

"There's something wrong with your boy," John said when they were sufficiently relaxed, just watching the fireflies and the moonlight. The August heat settled around them, growing softer and hazier as the night deepened. "Don't think I haven't noticed. He'll be the sweetest, happiest little kid you ever saw, and then he goes all formal and distant. It's weird. I don't like it."

Bobby sighed. "I know. It's a defense mechanism, I figure. He's just protecting himself, had to do it alone for a long time and now he doesn't know how to quit."

"That makes sense, I guess." John thoughtfully drank his beer.

"I'm not taking him to a shrink," Bobby said.

John shot him a look. "I wasn't gonna suggest it. What do those morons know anyway? Kid needs a family, not a lab monkey who's going to be fascinated as all hell but not actually give a damn."

"Yeah." Bobby leaned back into the Impala's windshield. "Family. I guess he picked his own."

"I guess so. He's not gonna be happy unless we visit all the time, is he?"

Bobby smiled, knowing it was hidden in the dark. "At least once a month, yeah. Possibly more."

John huffed. "Well, if we have to."

"To keep Jimmy happy," Bobby said mockingly.

"Dean, too."

"Right. Of course. Dean, too."

An agreeable silence stretched between them.

"I probably won't mind it too bad," Bobby admitted.

John grunted. "Guess I'll learn to live with it."

They clinked beer cans, and the deal was made.

(End)


	4. Rain Falling Down Short #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's raining again, and all the pillows are missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Once upon a time there was art for this 'verse. You might be able to see them if you open them in a new tab.](https://maychorian.livejournal.com/137074.html)

All the pillows in the house were missing.

Bobby didn't notice at first because it was, after all, the middle of the day, so not a lot of sleeping going on. He'd spent a good two hours in the workshop, getting a few parts ready to ship to an out-of-state customer. When he came out it was raining, dark as twilight, occasional flashes of lightning sparking across the sky with the  _crackaboom_  of thunder. It was a true summer storm, sharp and intense. Judging by the saturation of the ground, it had been going on for awhile.

Bartholomew, who for once had decided to accompany him to the workshop instead of hanging out with Jimmy, whined and backed away from the door. "Coward," Bobby muttered. The dog gave him a soulful look and slunk away.

He pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes and dashed for the house, managing to get only slightly damp in the process. He dried off and made some coffee, read a few pages of the newspaper, then worked on another project that was setting on his desk. Eventually he looked up, eyes narrowing, and stared at the couch in the next room. All of the throw pillows were gone.

Intrigued by this new mystery, Bobby fetched a dry hat to wear, then moved to check the rest of the house. The throw pillows were gone from every other piece of furniture, too, and when he went upstairs his bed was suspiciously flat. The answer, of course, was in Jimmy's room.

Bobby leaned in the doorway for a moment, just taking it in. A quilt was draped over the side of the bed, held off the floor at an angle by a rather well-constructed wall of pillows, stacked carefully one on two, two on one. The resulting structure was reminiscent of a lean-to, and it looked very cozy and snug, just the size for a little boy to curl up in on a rainy day. He heard the low rustle of a page turning, and then lightning flared outside the window and he heard a startled gasp, quickly cut off.

Bobby smiled sadly, then went downstairs and made some hot chocolate.

He brought the mug back to Jimmy's room and sat down with his back against the wall, only a couple feet away from the cave-like opening of the pillow fort. "Jimmy?"

"Yes sir?"

Bobby shook his head. The kid's voice was shaking. And he only called Bobby that when he was scared or nervous, when something had made him revert to the frightened fugitive of almost a month ago. "I brought you some cocoa."

He set it down at the mouth of the blanket cave. After a bit, one small hand emerged from the fort, fumbled slightly for the mug's handle, then retreated with the hot chocolate in tow. A couple of noisy slurps, and the hand returned the mug before disappearing back inside.

Again there was the rustle of a page.

"You still in there?" Bobby asked. "'Cause you're doin' a might fine impression of a big ol' turtle."

Another pause, though this one was somehow interested. "You mean like a tortoise? Like...a Galapagos?"

Bobby chuckled softly. "Yeah. A Galapagos."

"Oh. Neat." Jimmy wiggled forward on his hands and knees, dark tousled hair emerging first, then his blue eyes, then his serious little mouth. "Tortoises are nifty."

"They sure are, puddin'." Bobby ruffled his hair. "Whatcha reading in there?"

Jimmy settled down on his stomach in the pillows he'd piled on the floor.  _"A Horse and His Boy,_  from the Chronicles of Narnia. Did you ever read it before?"

"Can't say that I have."

"It's about a little boy named Shasta. Except that's not really his name, but he doesn't know that. His dad is mean to him sometimes. Beats him. Except he's not really his dad, either." Jimmy paused. "Kinda like a foster father, I guess."

"They're not all bad," Bobby said softly. "I don't want you to think they're all bad."

Silence. "I hope not," Jimmy said finally. "Anyway, Shasta runs away with this horse, Bree. He's a talking horse. I wish Bartholomew could talk. That would be fun. And then they go on an adventure and meet a girl and a girl horse and cross the desert and see Aslan and do some other stuff. And in the end Shasta finds out he's special, even though he doesn't really want to be. And he has a family and a home and a brother. And he's a prince. But that's not the part that's important. The home and the family, that's the important part."

Out of words, Jimmy grabbed the cocoa and took a long drink.

"Yeah," Bobby said. "Family is important. Is that your favorite Narnia book?"

"It didn't used to be," Jimmy said slowly. "Before, my favorite was  _Prince Caspian._  'Cause King Peter fights a duel and everything. But... I think this might be my favorite now."

Bobby leaned his head back against the wall, trying to ignore the way his chest ached. "Hey, buddy... When's your birthday?"

"Oh, it's way far away. March 17."

"1974?"

"Uh huh."

Bobby filed that away. He needed that info for the guardianship petition, the project waiting downstairs on his desk. "It's almost time for lunch. What d'you want?"

Thunder cracked outside, and Jimmy startled, but not as badly as before. He bit his lip, hesitating. "Can we have cheese toasties?"

Grilled cheese sandwiches, just like that first day. Bobby picked up the cocoa mug and climbed to his feet. "Of course. Maybe this time you'll try tomatoes on yours."

Jimmy made a face and hopped up, pulling the quilt with him. "Yuck, Uncle Bobby. Tomatoes are for BLTs."

Bobby grinned. "We can have those tomorrow." He looked at the boy, standing there with the quilt around his shoulders. He looked snug and warm and comfortable, but something was missing. Bobby took the hat off his head and dropped it on the kid's, where it fell down around his ears.

There. Perfect.

Jimmy smiled, slow and sweet. They were coming much more often now, those smiles. Then the man and the child went downstairs to make cheese toasties.

The boy sat at the table and ate his sandwich and drank his hot chocolate, all wrapped up in the quilt, a mirror image for that first day. But this Jimmy was warm and dry and free of bruises, Bobby's hat hanging on his head at a crazy angle. He smiled and ate at a reasonable pace, not wolfing his food like a starved animal, enjoying his food greatly but without stress. It was everything good and right and beautiful and damn it, it was turning Bobby into a huge softy. He couldn't bring himself to care much, though.

Mid-bite, Jimmy paused and dug around in the blanket, then pulled out the book, which must have been poking him somewhere uncomfortable. He set it on the table and gave Bobby a hopeful look.

At first Bobby didn't quite get it, but then a lightbulb went off. "Ah...do you..." He cleared his throat. "Want me to read it to you sometime? Maybe after lunch?"

Jimmy beamed and tucked back into his sandwich. "I want you to see how Shasta ends up being a prince." He looked up suddenly, his face calm and grave, and told him very seriously, "You make me feel like a prince, Uncle Bobby. I just want you to know that. Just like Shasta found a happy ending, Jimmy...I did too. Here with you."

Bobby smiled softly, ignoring the creep of gooseflesh, knowing that this was that other personality living inside the boy, and this one knew, somehow, that he was separate from young Jimmy. Someday Bobby was going to have to address this, figure out a way to deal with it. But this day was too lovely for such darkness.

"I hope you don't think I'm a king," he said instead. "Just your average junkyard owner, here."

"Oh, you are far from average, Uncle Bobby." Then old Jimmy moved out of sight again, and it was just young Jimmy, smiling around his sandwich.

Bobby picked up the book and began to read.

(End)


	5. Butterfly Against a Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel still worried, sometimes, often, all the time, that he wasn't going to be enough, that he wouldn't be able to change what was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Download and art.](https://maychorian.livejournal.com/138122.html)
> 
> Yeah, before YouTube and 8tracks and Spotify, we made soundtracks into downloadable files.

**Jimmy & Castiel**

**Butterflies and Hurricanes – Muse**  
Change everything you are and everything you were. Your number has been called. Fight, battles have begun, revenge will surely come. Now, hard times are ahead.

_A decade or so later Castiel and Jimmy would watch a movie about dinosaurs with the Winchester boys, who would be delighted with the action and the gore while Castiel and Jimmy could think of nothing but chaos theory and butterflies and hurricanes and the fate of the world turning on the thinnest and smallest of fulcrums. They would go out for hamburgers and milkshakes afterward and Dean and Sam would laugh and recite favorite lines and ask Jimmy if he enjoyed it, and Castiel would barely answer, thinking about the wager he had made, the single flap of fragile, broken wings against the powerful winds of fate. He would sit there and hope desperately and silently while Jimmy distracted the Winchesters with bright smiles and false laughter._

**Breaking Stops – Rudisill**  
I can't wait till this breaking stops, and I'm saved in the name of God. For the sake of my Jesus Christ, I will live and die.

_Before this, Castiel had not known the fragility of the human body and spirit, how easily they could be damaged, broken. Oh, he had seen it in Dean, in other humans, but that wasn't the same as knowing. But here he was now, trapped in this wounded little boy, and now, now he understood it all too well. But he had never before truly understood hope, either. Angels didn't need hope—they just knew. The gift of hope was almost worth the darkness of despair, it was such a bright and glowing thing, small but intensely beautiful._

**Fly – Jars of Clay**  
I saw the host of silent angels waiting on their own. Know that all the promises of faith come alive when you see home. Hold still and let your hand melt into mine.

_Jimmy's faith in Castiel was a beautiful thing, too. The child had been terribly mistreated, battered by demons, by humans, until it seemed that there should be nothing left. Yet he slipped his hand into Castiel's without the slightest hesitation, trusting him to save them, to restore all that had been stolen from him even though the loss had been Castiel's fault in the first place. And the angel could do nothing but accept this enormous gift of faith and vow to be worthy of it to the best of his ability._

**Rock Garden – Bedlam Bards**

_They walked out of that blood-soaked house and into the rain. Water from the sky fell all around them, washing the blood from Jimmy's hair and clothes and fingernails. The boy stumbled and fell and Castiel picked them up. Eventually he had to stop, concentrate, transport them, because it was just too far for the battered little one to travel on his feet. The rain washed away the thick copper stream flowing from the small nose, already sore and swollen from earlier exertions and earlier blows. They kept going, all the way to Bobby Singer's porch. And there they could go no farther._

**Jimmy & Bobby**

**Blackbird – Evan Rachel Woods**  
Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly. All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arrive.

_When he took the time to look closer, Castiel was surprised to recognize a mirrored brokenness in Bobby Singer. The man had lost a great deal, and it had changed him. But there was goodness in him too. He was incapable of ignoring the hurt in Jimmy, incapable of turning away. Castiel could only watch in amazement as the wounded humans came together and began to heal, each a balm for the other. He had never imagined such a thing, but here it was, happening before his eyes._

**Mahna Mahna – CAKE**

_Jimmy's spirit was full of astonishing brightness. Once a few layers of injury had been peeled away, he began to shine again. Beautiful and sweet and overflowing with joy, he sang and laughed and glowed. Every sound, every movement, was a shout of praise. Castiel understood more fully than ever just why the Father loved these frail creatures of dust so very much._

**Symphonic Dance – Phil Keaggy**

_When rain came again to Bobby Singer's house, Jimmy built himself a small shelter of pillows and blankets and hid away from the flaring light and roaring darkness, protecting himself as best he could from the memories. But Bobby brought him cocoa and coaxed him out, and Jimmy could do nothing but blossom richly in the light of such care and affection. The next time it rained, it was a gentle fall, and the child danced in it, jumping through the puddles and laughing when the dog Bartholomew shook his shaggy body and sprayed the boy with muddy water. Storms never again had such painful power over his spirit._

**Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel) – Billy Joel**  
Goodnight, my angel, now it's time to sleep, and still so many things I want to say. Remember all the songs you sang to me when we went sailing on an emerald bay.

_One day in July, Bobby took Jimmy fishing on a nearby lake. He warned the boy not to make much noise or he might scare the fish. Jimmy tried to listen, but he was just too full of joy. He sang without realizing he was doing it, usually quite loudly. At first Bobby shushed him every time, and the boy silenced himself with a sheepish apology and a blush. Eventually, though, the man just gave up, smiling at Jimmy with a strange light of exasperated love in his eyes. They caught very few fish, but it was a wonderful day, nonetheless. Jimmy fell asleep quickly that night, exhausted with happiness, Bobby's hand stroking the hair back from his forehead. Castiel lay awake for some time, remembering how good it had been._

**You Belong to Me – Jason Wade**  
See the marketplace in old Angiers, send me photographs and souvenirs. Just remember when a dream appears, you belong to me.

_Castiel knew that they would have to leave Bobby Singer eventually. This interlude of peace and healing was entirely necessary, but it couldn't last. Soon, perhaps when they finally found John Winchester, they would have to go. Castiel had come back here for a purpose and it could not be ignored, but he had no idea how he could explain this to Uncle Bobby. In a very real way, Jimmy belonged to Bobby now. It would wound them terribly to be apart, and Castiel dreaded the coming inevitability. Jimmy tried to assure him that it would be all right, that Uncle Bobby would understand and bless their journey, once they worked up the courage to tell him about it. But they both put it off for as long as possible._

**Scotch Chocolate – Nickel Creek**

_The warm months of summer seemed to stretch into infinity. They played in the woods with Bartholomew, helped Bobby with his automobile parts, ate cheese sandwiches and drank lemonade. At night they lounged beside the fire and read Narnia books while Bobby studied demonology texts or leafed through the newspaper. The nights were deep and restful, as long as the nightmares stayed away, which they didn't always. Neither Jimmy nor Castiel had much control over what their minds chose to do at night. Sometimes they woke with a startled gasp and fell quickly back to sleep, and sometimes Bobby was there to comfort them. But sunlight always chased dreams and memories away, forgotten, and the long summer days were full of music and laughter and goodness._

**Jimmy & Dean**

**Over the Rainbow – Me First and the Gimmes Gimmes**  
Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly. Birds fly over the rainbow, why then, oh, why can't I?

_It shouldn't really have been possible for Jimmy and Dean to be friends, Castiel reflected the night after they met for the first time in this reality. It was a collision of two entirely different forms of matter, or perhaps a collision of mass and energy, the particle-wave of light and one of the heavy elements. Impossible according to all the laws of earthly physics, in other words. Years later Castiel would have a better analogy—it was like a fusion of hard rock and showtunes, crazy and headache-inducing. Yet somehow they made it work, those two children. It was amazing and somehow perfect._

**You're My Best Friend – Queen**  
Ooh, you make me live. Whenever this world is cruel to me, I've got you to help me forgive.

_Before this time, Castiel had never had any concept of having a "best friend." He'd had brothers, sisters, teachers, superiors, and above all a Father, but never exactly what humans might term a friend. Jimmy, sifting through Castiel's memories of the other Dean, had been dismayed to realize that the same was true of the elder Winchester. Dean had had acquaintances, "lovers," a brother, a father, a lost mother, and an avuncular figure in Bobby Singer. But never a true friend, let alone a best one. "It's going to be different this time around," Jimmy told him firmly, and Castiel could only agree. They both devoted themselves fully to being the best best friend that had ever existed._

**Leatherwing Bat – Cormorant's Fancy**  
I, said the little turtledove, I'll tell you how to win her love. Court her night and court her day. Never give her time to say Oh nay.

_The first time around, Dean and Sam grew up with classic rock, country music, AC/DC and Motorhead and The Allman Brothers. This time, though, there was Jimmy, and he had entirely different ideas of what good music was. He sang them hymns and Sunday School songs and folk tunes, and the little Winchesters could only listen and love them, because Jimmy's voice was sweet and pure and his delight in this music shone through in every note, every syllable. Castiel hummed along inside his head, sometimes sang them himself, hesitantly at first but with growing confidence as the years passed. It was nothing like the music the angels sang in heaven and Castiel missed that music with a sharp ache that never faded. But slowly, gradually, he began to forget what it sounded like, and the songs in his head were replaced with "Amazing Grace" and "The Wise Man and the Foolish Man" and "Leatherwing Bat"._

**Son of Man – Phil Collins**  
There's no one there to guide you, no one to take your hand, but with faith and understanding you'll journey from boy to man.

_As Jimmy grew and learned, Castiel experienced everything with him. Every emotion, every growing pain, every hurt and joy, small and large and in-between. He knew now that the emotions he had felt as an angel were minuscule, limited, rare, and yet they had affected him deeply. He could not help but be powerfully shaken by these. Uriel would have said that this was corrupting him, but Castiel felt larger for it, stronger in all the ways that mattered, even though his grace was still wounded, his wings clipped. With every new discovery, humanity grew more precious to him, more worth saving, and he did not regret a moment of it._

**Skating – Vince Guaraldi Trio**

_The winter Dean was six and Jimmy was eleven, the Winchester boys spent almost a month at Uncle Bobby's while their father trained with a hunter out east who was willing to show him a few tricks of the trade. The boys built snow forts and stuffed snow down each other's shirts and walked through the blank white world, looking behind themselves to see where they'd been. They went inside and had soup and hot cocoa, noses and cheeks bright red with cold and stinging as they warmed. Most peculiar of all, they made snow angels, and Castiel looked down from Jimmy's height and tilted his head to stare at them, remembering his brethren, missing them dreadfully. Jimmy reminded him, though, that Uncle Bobby was going to take them skating on a pond that afternoon, and he soon forgot his loneliness._

**Fallen from the Sky – Glen Hansard**  
You must have fallen from the sky, you must have come here in the pouring rain. You took so many through the light, and now you're on your own. If you need somewhere to fall apart, somewhere to fall apart...

_Castiel knew that Bobby was going to figure it out eventually. He already knew that Castiel existed, just didn't know his name, what he was. Bobby was extremely intelligent, for a human, and Castiel was very bad at imitating humanity, though he slowly learned, getting better at acting like Jimmy every day. And every day he got away with it, Uncle Bobby looked a little more relieved. He thought Jimmy was getting better, healing, but there was no healing from this. Eventually he would find out, or they would tell him, because he had to know. They needed his help. For now, though, it was nice to just be a little boy, sheltered and loved._

**The Road Ahead**

**Faith Enough – Jars of Clay**  
This body frail enough for fighting, I'm home enough to know I'm lost. Home enough to know I'm lost. It's just enough to be strong in the broken places, in the broken places. It's just enough to be strong should the world rely on faith tonight.

_Castiel still worried, sometimes, often, all the time, that he wasn't going to be enough. He was alone here, terribly alone. He couldn't communicate with his brothers, even if they would have listened, and the isolation was terrifying at times. He'd never known a time when he couldn't reach inside himself and hear a thousand million billion trillion voices, feel a part of that multitude, strength in their shared purpose and faith. This loneliness was the worst thing he'd ever experienced in all his long existence. But he had Jimmy, he always had Jimmy, one small sure voice in the wilderness. Jimmy's faith could tilt the universe on edge, of that Castiel was certain. It would be faith enough to change the future._

**Twenty-Four – Switchfoot**  
I want to see miracles, see the world change. I wrestled the angel for more than a name. For more than a feeling, more than a cause. I'm singing, "Spirit, take me up in arms with You."

 _Failure was not something that angels were familiar with. They had been created for specific purposes—sometimes_ very _specific purposes—and given the tools to fulfill them. That was all. Before he met Dean, Castiel had never failed a mission, never disobeyed an order, never botched a job. But it seemed that humanity always added innumerable variables to tasks that should have been unquestionably simple. And Castiel was bound, now, by a body, by time, by injuries that he could not heal alone. Everything was different now, and too much was the same. And Castiel knew fear._

 **All Is Well – Carolyn Arends**  
Storms will come, hide the sun and leave us numb with cold. Limbs will fall, still all is well with my soul.

_One of Castiel's favorites of Jimmy's hymns spoke of how tragedy battered and trials came but still all was well with the hymn writer's soul. Castiel knew the man's story, knew that he had lost his wife and children in terrible circumstances. And still he had written that song, despite everything. If a single human could bear all that and still believe in God's peace, if Jimmy could suffer all that he had and still trust Castiel to repair the damage, then surely he, an angel of the Lord, could hold the same peace and faith in his heart no matter what the future held._

**Mansions – Burlap to Cashmere**  
Now pride and hate they live inside me. I need your loving love to guide me. Help me walk across these borders. I'm a pilgrim in deep waters.

_It was supremely distressing, being unable to hear audible answers to his prayers. Castiel was used to being able to seek guidance wherever and whenever he wished. Though he doubted now whether the answers he received had truly come from the Father, it had still been an immense comfort to be able to ask a question and receive an answer almost immediately. All was murky and confused, now, cloudy, gray. Castiel followed no orders but his own. He did not find this liberating, as Dean might have. He was unmoored, loose and adrift in a trackless sea. Still he prayed daily, though he heard nothing. Jimmy did, too, but he was used to the silence, so it didn't perturb him. It was yet another way that the human child gave comfort to the imprisoned angel._

**This Road – Jars of Clay**  
This road that we travel, may it be the straight and narrow. God, give us peace and grace from You all the day. Shelter with fire, our voices we raise still higher. God, give us peace and grace from You all the day through.

_Castiel did not know what the future held. He only knew that the journey would be long and hard, like nothing he had ever done. He was a wanderer now, just as Sam and Dean had always been. As with so many things, he understood much better now what that was like, how uncertain and lonely this path was. He had much more sympathy for Sam now, for the choices he had made. They had always seemed like the right ones, even as they led him farther and farther away from the path. Castiel could only pray that he was not making the same sorts of mistakes._

**On Distant Shores – Five Iron Frenzy**  
With my eyes fastened tight yet unscarred from the fight, running at full-tilt, my sword pulled from its hilt, it's funny how these days can slip away. Our frail deeds at last will wave goodbye.

_Battles were coming. Castiel kept his sword sharpened, hoping that someday it would be unsheathed again. That he would someday again be a warrior, fighting against the demons instead of hiding from them. That he would be able to unfurl his wings and fly. He missed flight most of all. But his sword was sharp. He was ready._


	6. And Make Their Quiet Pleas for Sanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy doesn't want to go to school, and Bobby doesn't know what to do.

When the Winchesters left, Jimmy stared down the road after them, solemn and sad. He was in a funk for days, missing them, not saying anything about it but just...missing them. Bobby tried to distract him, but he wasn't really familiar with this kind of problem. He couldn't ply the kid with drinks until he forgot about it, couldn't slap him on the back and tell him to buck up, and that was about the extent of his consolation skills.

September was on them before they knew it, and that promised to be a darn good distraction, all right. Bobby fumbled his way through parental rituals he'd never performed before: enrollment, back-to-school shopping, nights spent awake staring at the ceiling hoping that his boy would do all right in a new school, that he would make friends and get along with his teachers and just...well...not have a total and utter breakdown over it, that was all.

Because Jimmy, usually the sweetest and most cooperative kid in the universe, was no help whatsoever when it came to this. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to go to school and he dragged his feet and he begged Bobby not to make him, but Bobby's hands were kind of tied over this one.

"Please don't make me go," he pleaded one day in late August, tears in his eyes, hands up around his face as if in a vain search for something to grab onto. "Please don't make me. I don't wanna go to school, Uncle Bobby, I don't wanna. Please don't make me."

Bobby sighed, shoulders slumping. He swept the hat off his head and rubbed his forearm over the sweat just below his hairline. They were standing in the kitchen, all the windows open and a fan running, and the heat was still oppressive. He'd been thinking about turning on the A/C when he'd come around the corner and found the kid like this, just standing there, crying. School started in a week and it was all either of them could think about.

"You gotta go, buddy," Bobby said. "Them's the rules. You don't gotta like 'em, but it's the way it is."

"I don't  _need_  school," Jimmy said desperately, burying his hands in his dark hair and tugging on it. "I know everything I need to know, I do! I can read and write and everything. I know stuff, way more than other kids. I don't  _need_  it and I don't  _want_  it, so why do I gotta?"

"It's the way it is, puddin'. The  _government."_  Bobby made that word into the worst cuss he'd ever uttered, spreading his hands helplessly. "Rules. They're keeping an eye on me, y'know, making sure I do right by you. And I intend to."

"Right, yeah, I'll do right by you," Jimmy rushed on, seizing on that idea. "I know I was lazy this summer but I can stop. I can help you. I can do lots of things. I can keep the house clean, or, or do something in the yard, and, and I can help with your research!" He scooped a book off the random stack that always seemed to sit on the kitchen table and started reading aloud. In the original Aramaic.

"Jimmy, that's not what..."

"Or other things, I can do other things." The boy's fingers were white around the book. "I can help with the formulas for the magic stuff you put together. You got quadratic equations? I can solve them." He grabbed a piece of scrap paper and a pencil and sat down at the table, poised to write, forehead wrinkled in concentration. "I'll show you, I will!"

And then the frantic demonstration ground to a halt. Jimmy sat there, tense, straining. A series of expressions flickered over his face—desperation, stubbornness, pleading, the stern, stony mask of old Jimmy when he was very displeased with something.

"Jimmy..." Bobby sat across the table from him, reached over to grip his frozen hands. "Jimmy, what are you trying to do?"

"I can do it!" The words ricocheted out of his mouth in a fierce burst, angry, scared. "He can do it, but he won't, he says... Come on! Do it!"

A sudden spike of terror numbed Bobby, too. The two personalities inside Jimmy were at war. How could this do anything but tear the boy apart? He had to stop this, he had to calm the kid down before he hurt himself.

"Jimmy, son, stop it. Stop it. It's all right. I believe you—you don't have to show me. I believe you."

Jimmy's hands went limp in his, the pencil falling the short distance to the tabletop and rolling away. The boy stared down at their linked hands, shoulders hunched, breath fast. At least he seemed to listening.

"Jimmy..." Bobby bit his lip. "I'm sorry, but even if you could do advanced calculus, even if you're a rocket scientist in there, you still gotta go to school."

"Please, no," Jimmy whispered.

And this quiet, shattered plea did more to break Bobby's heart than anything else had all summer, and that was saying a hell of a lot.

"Why are you so scared, huh?" he asked with the same quietness. "What's so terrible about school?"

Jimmy's shoulders crept up even further, almost hiding his ears, and he trembled in Bobby's grip. "Please... Please, I don't wanna tell you. I...just, I can't go to school, please don't make me."

Bobby frowned. "I'm sorry, but that's not good enough. Tell me why."

The boy darted a glance at him, eyes bright with moisture. Bobby felt  _horrible._  But he kept his face stern, commanding. He needed to know what this was about.

Jimmy took a deep breath. He spoke slowly, reluctantly, as if every word hurt something inside. "Last year... It was all messed up."

Bobby sat very still.

The boy swallowed thickly. His voice was barely audible, Bobby held himself rock-solid and silent, listening. "I couldn't do anything, I couldn't do anything right. Mr. Baker... He looked over my assignments, said it was important for me to do good at school, but I couldn't do anything right. I tried, I tried really hard." He looked up at Bobby, begging him to understand through eyes swimming with terrified tears, then quickly lowered his gaze again.

"I tried so hard, but it was never good enough. And just...I know it's gonna be the same. I'm still...I'm still just Jimmy, even though Cas... I mean, I know it's gonna be the same. And nobody...nobody at school is gonna care. They didn't before, not even right after my parents died and I had to move into a foster home and start all over at a new school... No one cared, I was just a foster kid. Why should they care now? It's not gonna be any different."

Bobby was trembling now, too, though not with fear. He tried to gather himself, tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind. It was like staring at a deep pit, a canyon ripped open by an earthquake, and wondering if some spackle might help. "Kiddo... Did you ever tell...? Your teachers, did they...?"

Jimmy shook his head and plunged quickly on, trying to explain. "I told my teachers that I wanted to do better, but they were all so busy, and... Nothing I said seemed to matter. Nothing, not anywhere. And then I...I stopped asking. I tried so hard, but I was never good enough, and I never will be. I'm not  _enough."_

No one had noticed. God damn it all, this kid had been taken to pieces on a daily basis and  _no one had noticed._  The failure was immense, overwhelming, and utterly enraging. Bobby didn't have words for the fury that was coiling inside him, eating up his gut and stealing his voice.

"Aw, Jimmy..."

"I'm sorry, I'll try to do better!" The kid was frantic again, tugging at his hands to free them from Bobby's grip, probably so he could tear at his hair again. Bobby refused to let go, unsure what else he could do. "I always tried, I did, but I can try harder. I'll do anything you want, just please don't make me go to school. Please, please don't make me go. I wanna stay here with you, Uncle Bobby, please let me stay."

"Kid, you gotta..." Bobby felt utterly helpless against this. Anything he could say or do would surely be inadequate. Talk about  _not enough._ How could he possibly provide what this grievously wounded child needed? He didn't even know what it was.

Jimmy stared at him, sniffing, beseeching.

"C'mere." Bobby tugged on the boy's hands, pulled him around the table and into his arms. Jimmy came willingly and leaned against him, stiff with tension at first but slowly relaxing. Bobby rubbed his back and tried to figure out where to start.

"Jimmy, who told you you weren't good enough? Mr. Baker? One of your teachers?"

A faint shake of the head. "No one told me. I figured it out for myself."

Ah. Even worse. Bobby remembered what he'd read in those books about child abuse, how it was entirely natural for the child to believe that the violence and pain was somehow his own fault. The only alternative was to believe in a chaotic world where horrible things happened for no reason, and that defied childish logic and rationality. Believing that the fault laid with them gave these children some sense of control, a wisp of hope, even if it was entirely futile. Much easier to believe things would get better  _if I do this right, if I act just this way, if I do this, or this, or this..._  than to give into despair and surrender to the inevitable. It was defense and survival, same as the split personality.

But he didn't need it anymore. Time to move on. Somehow, if only Bobby could find the right words.

"They told you that by the way they treated you," Bobby said solemnly. "Kiddo, they were wrong. They were dead wrong. You're plenty good enough. You're one 'a the best little boys in all fifty states. Toldja that before, didn't I?"

Jimmy nodded against him, trembling. "You said something like that, yeah."

"Well, who you gonna believe? Them or me?"

The trembling went up a notch. Bobby held him tighter, heat be damned. The kid's voice was low, scared. "I want to believe you."

"Maybe part of you does."

Old Jimmy understood it, Bobby was pretty sure. Old Jimmy understood a lot of things. He was spooky like that.

But this Jimmy just went still against him, suddenly stone. It was the stillness of a hunted animal staring into a predator's eyes. "What do you mean?"

Bobby scowled softly to himself. This maybe was not such a good time for this conversation. Then again, maybe they'd been ignoring it long enough. "You call him Castiel."

Jimmy pushed away from him, skinny little arms thrusting off his chest with surprising power. Bobby let go, shocked by the vehemence in that gesture, and stared at the white-faced boy who stumbled across the kitchen and leaned against the cabinet to stare back at him. For a moment the kid's mouth just opened and closed, nothing coming out. Then, "You know?"

"I knew since day one," Bobby said gently. "Well, I knew somethin' was going on. That bastard messed you up in a hundred ways, and it's not your fault, it's not. You needed the reassurance of this, and it helped you get through to the other side, and I don't blame you one tiny bit. But honey, you gotta believe me when I tell ya that there's no angel inside you."

Jimmy went even whiter, impossible as it was, flinching back against the counter. "What?"

"Castiel, right? An angel of Thursday. I looked it up. That's who you think you got inside you. But it's just you, Jimmy. You ever heard of split personalities? You did it to protect yourself—from Baker, from the pain, from the confusion of your psychic abilities. It was good, honest, it kept you sane and in one piece long enough to find me. But you don't need it anymore. You're stronger than that."

"No, no, no." The words were faint and horrified. Jimmy shook his head from side to side, volume steadily building. "No, no, no no no. No, Uncle Bobby, no, you don't understand!"

"Son, I do understand. I understand everything." Bobby rose to his feet and carefully crossed the kitchen, hands spread open and wide. "It's okay, it's okay. They're both part of you, this personality and the one you call Castiel. I like 'em both. I like all of you. You can be yourself. It's gonna be okay."

"He's an angel, Uncle Bobby. He's an angel. He came and he saved me, but he's hurt too, he's trapped inside me, that's why he can't leave, but he's an angel, he really is. Please, please, you hafta believe me." Jimmy's voice was low and urgent, but he sagged back against the cabinet, giving in. Being this desperate for this long must be exhausting.

Bobby paused, hating the way the kid shrank away from him. "I'm not gonna hurt you. Either of you. I want to help."

The boy lowered his head for a moment, and when he raised it, it was old Jimmy, Castiel, the angel, the split, the shield, calm and certain and rigid as granite. His hands came down and his back straightened, and he stood tall and still, regal and commanding. "Bobby Singer. You understand nothing of this situation."

Bobby inclined his head slightly, telling him that he was listening. He backed off a step, waiting, aware that this little guy needed the space, the distance.

Castiel nodded slowly, taking this gesture of respect as his due. "I am an angel of the Lord. I am separate from Jimmy Novak, complete in myself, a wholly different entity, only imprisoned in this body."

Bobby kept his hands out, his voice soothing. This was just as much his kid as young Jimmy was. "Castiel, this is a fiction you invented to protect yourself. Angels aren't real. Jimmy...you grew up in a Christian household, learned the Bible at your parents' knee. Of course when the psychic stuff started showing up, it scared you. So you decided it came from God. It's okay. It was a logical conclusion. But it's false."

Castiel shook his head, slow, solemn. "Jimmy Novak is not psychic. He is a perfectly normal little boy, besides the unique touch that makes him fit to be an angelic vessel. He knows the future because I know the future, because I came from there. I saw the end of the world and I brought myself back here to change it. In the process I was injured, my grace twisted and cut, and I cannot heal it alone. If I were fully myself, I would be able to prove this to you, but all I have now are words."

"I never heard of angels traveling through time." Bobby shook his head, forehead wrinkling. "I never heard of anything like this ever before, and believe me, I've read a lot of books. No one's seen an angel in hundreds of years, and the accounts before then are strictly religious. Angels don't exist."

Castiel's mouth twisted. "And yet I am here. Time is fluid, Uncle Bobby. Sometimes it can be bent. Before I came here in 2009, no angel had walked the earth in two thousand years. But I am here now."

Oh, this elaborate fantasy. Bobby sighed and wiped the sweat from his forehead again. The story Jimmy had built for himself was deep, entrenched, a protective fortress built with roots digging into his soul. Bobby started to wonder if this was the right path to take, trying to root out something so completely intertwined with the boy's spirit. He didn't see how he could dismantle it without taking Jimmy apart right along with it.

But no. The truth was always better than the lie, even if it hurt.

Castiel sighed, too. He sounded old, and exasperated, and very, very tired. "This is why I didn't tell you who I was immediately," he said. "This lack of faith in the majority of humans in this time... It's very frustrating."

Bobby might have found his expression intimidating, if he wasn't sure deep down that this was really his Jimmy, somewhere in there. The boy's head tipped back, eyes closing, and he pulled in a deep breath, tension flooding his body like that of an athlete preparing to sprint or jump or attempt some other feat.

The lightbulb above their heads flickered even though the light wasn't on, and Bobby looked up in sudden alarm. The radio next to the sink turned on, hissed with static, turned off again. More lights began to strobe on and off, the kitchen, then the next room.

The kid was shaking, a torrent of blood flowing from his nose.

"Jimmy!" Bobby grabbed his arms. "Castiel! Stop it! What are you trying to do?"

"Trying...to...show you," Castiel said through gritted teeth. It was the first time his voice had sounded anything but calm. This was the same desperation that had heightened Jimmy's voice when he begged Bobby not to make him go school, what felt like years ago.

"Stop it!" Bobby shook him, gently at first then with mounting panic. Tendons stood out on the kid's neck, his face drawn and long in a wrenching grimace. And blood, more blood, too much blood. "Stop! You're hurting yourself! Castiel! You're hurting  _Jimmy!"_

The light show ended abruptly and Castiel slumped bonelessly toward the floor, head bouncing limply off Bobby's shoulder as he fell. Bobby caught him in his arms, lowered them down. They were getting blood everywhere, smearing it down Jimmy's neck, all over Bobby's chest. He didn't care as long as the flow had stopped.

He knelt there, clasping the exhausted child to him, heart pounding frantic and wild against his ribs. What the hell. What the  _hell._

"Sorry," Castiel murmured, a warm breath ghosting over the hollow of Bobby's throat. "I'm sorry. I can't do it anymore. I can't show you. My wings... I think they're broken."

The utter heartbreak in that small, weary voice sent a lump rocketing into Bobby's throat, all but suffocating him. He didn't think it would do any good at this point to tell the boy that the wings didn't exist. It was enough that Jimmy, that Castiel believed it, and felt the brokenness in himself. God, this poor kid.

"It's okay," he whispered. "We'll get 'em fixed."

"You don't think they're real," Castiel said bitterly.

Bobby never wanted to hear that kind of despair in Jimmy's voice, not ever again. "But you do," he said thickly. "So we'll get 'em fixed, somehow. I swear we will."

Castiel nodded wearily into his shoulder. "I want to believe you," he said in a tiny voice. "Jimmy wants to believe you, too. Do you want to believe us?"

"I..." Bobby blinked, trying to bring his thoughts into order. He considered himself to be a rational man, a man of science and knowledge, even if the realm of knowledge he pursued was exceedingly esoteric. He had accepted the existence of demons, when he was forced to. Why couldn't he believe in angels, too?

Because all of the lore, all of the research, all of the witnesses spoke against their existence, that was why.

Bobby blew out a lungful of air. "Yeah. Yeah, I want to believe you."

The kid drew in a deep, shaky breath. "Well, that's something."

Yeah, something. Not enough, but something. Bobby cradled Castiel to his chest, stroking his fingers through the dark, messy hair. After awhile he felt the little shift, the change in breathing, and knew that Jimmy had come forward again. He didn't stop caressing his hair, though, and Jimmy didn't move, didn't speak, not for a long time.

X

Jimmy got even more depressed and uncooperative after that. Bobby kept a sharp eye out, but he didn't see Castiel again, not even for a brief moment to study some ancient book or pause to enjoy the sunset, both things the older personality had done in the past. It was as if the roles were suddenly reversed, and Jimmy was protecting Castiel instead of the other way around. Both were wounded, and Bobby could help neither.

Jimmy saw him looking, once, and gave him a grim little smile, strange on his young face. "He's tired," he said, almost stiffly, accusingly, clearly feeling that it was Bobby's fault that his "angel" didn't want to come out. "He wore himself out trying to prove who he was to you."

Yep, that was definitely accusation in the kid's voice.

Bobby swallowed. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt you, either of you. You know that, right?"

"Yeah." Jimmy nodded shortly, looking away. "He's just kinda...curled up, trying to rest. Castiel worries that he's not gonna be enough, too, y'know. He saw the end of the world and it was awful, and he came back to try to fix it, and he's all alone and he's hurt and he's scared, and he's not used to being any of those things. It's hard for him."

"I'm sorry," Bobby said again, helplessly. "I wish I could help."

Jimmy gave him a calculating look. "You could let us stay home from school. It's gonna be useless, anyway."

It always came back to that, now. Bobby frowned and shook his head. Jimmy heaved a full-body sigh and went back to what he'd been doing.

A couple days later the phone rang in the evening. It was late enough in the day that Bobby figured it probably wasn't one of those annoying social workers or something, but he still hesitated before picking up the handset. Jimmy was draped stomach-down over the armchair in the sitting room, head and shoulders hanging over the arm and feet in the air, staring listlessly into the fire. School started in three days and the kid was less and less inclined to do anything but brood about it.

"Singer Salvage," Bobby greeted shortly.

"Hey..." The guy on the other end sounded hesitant, unsure of what he was doing. "This is John Winchester. Is Jimmy there? Dean wants to talk to him."

Bobby could hear the incredulity in the other man's voice. He guessed Dean hadn't  _wanted_  to talk to someone for a really long time, and now he was asking, John couldn't do anything but comply. "Yeah, he's here," he said more warmly.

He held the handset toward the boy. "Phone's for you. It's Dean."

Jimmy perked up instantly, looking more bright-eyed and interested than he had since the subject of school first came up. He popped out of the chair like a tousle-haired jack-in-the-box and reached eagerly for the phone. Bobby gave it to him and backed off, watching, just glad to see the kid looking happy for a little while.

"Hi, Dean!" Jimmy chirped, perky as a jaybird in spring. "How's Sammy? What've you been doing?"

The boys had only seen each other face-to-face for a few days, but already they had developed their own language, their own vocabulary and collection of in-jokes. Bobby sat back and observed, keeping still and hopefully unnoticed. A couple of times Jimmy's eyes flickered in a way that made him think that Castiel was coming out for a moment, but the feeling always passed quickly. It was obvious, though, that both Jimmy and Castiel had an immense fondness for Dean, curious about absolutely everything the younger boy had to say.

They chatted for a long time. Bobby had a sudden, frightening glimpse of what having a teenager might be like. Then Jimmy grinned brilliantly, chirped a good-bye, and held the phone toward Bobby. "Uncle John wants to talk to you."

Bobby felt his brow furrow. "Uncle John, huh?"

Jimmy nodded, completely casual and unconcerned. He wiggled the handset a little and Bobby took it. The boy flopped back into the armchair, still carrying a small smile and an air of lightheartedness, and gazed dreamily into the dying fire.

"Yeah?" Bobby turned slightly away, wondering what the hell Winchester had to say to him.

"Singer..." The younger man still sounded unsure of himself. "Listen, I've been thinking..."

"Didja hurt yourself?" Bobby couldn't resist asking.

John let out a startled chuckle, and the tension was broken. He continued speaking, more easily now. "Dean, you know, he hasn't been talking much. At all. And now this psychic little kid comes out of the blue, and suddenly he has a friend, and he  _wants_  to talk, and just... I don't want 'im to slide backward, y'know? And he's gonna start kindergarten and I was thinking maybe I should I find a place to settle, just for a little while, but I gotta keep moving, gotta learn all I need to know. There's this Murphy guy in Minnesota who's willing to teach me some things, and I was gonna put Dean in school there, but... Who knows if he'll make any friends there. Who knows how he'll do. And meanwhile there's Jimmy, and..."

"You don't wanna lose what you got," Bobby said. "I get it. And yeah, I know Jim Murphy. He's a good guy. But he doesn't know any more about the supernatural than I do, that I can tell ya. You want to learn, I guess I can throw a few books at you, set up a target range in the back of the junkyard. You could do worse."

Winchester chuckled again, relief in it, lightness. "Yeah, I could. So, uh... You don't happen to know of any job openings around your parts? For a mechanic, maybe?"

Bobby grinned now, unable to help himself. "I guess I could help you out. You'd better hurry out here, though. School's about to start, and I have no idea how the enrollment thing works when you're so late."

"Yeah, I have no idea either. Ma...Mary, she was the one who took care of preschool and all that."

Sadness surged through the man's voice, swift and strong as an undertow. Bobby felt himself softening. Again.

Weird to think about, but it was true. They were both new to this stuff.

Single parenthood.

Bobby cleared his throat, got out a gruff, "See you tomorrow, then? Minnesota's not that far."

"Tomorrow," John said. "Thanks, Bobby. I owe you. Big."

"I'll make you pay, don't worry."

"I figured."

Before the other man could hang up, Bobby cleared his throat again. "Uh, John?"

"Still here."

"Listen...you don't owe me that much. Jimmy needs Dean, too. I...well, I guess I'll explain when you get here."

John's voice lowered. "The...thing he does?"

"Yeah. Jimmy... He's gonna need a friend, just as much as Dean does."

They hung up, and Bobby made his way to the sitting room, leaning on the armchair next to Jimmy's feet. "Hey, kiddo. It was good to hear from Dean, yeah?"

Jimmy twisted on his side to look at him, arms akimbo against the chair's arm. "Yeah. I missed him."

Bobby nodded, patted his foot. "He missed you too."

"Dean's important," the boy said solemnly, something like Castiel's intense gravity shimmering in his young eyes. "So is Sam. Everything depends on them." He twisted back around to stare into the fire. "But right now they're just little kids. We need to keep them safe."

Bobby's heart gave a little pulse of pain at the way Jimmy said that, as if he wasn't a kid himself, as if he was an adult and this was all his responsibility. Too much, it had to be too much for such a young boy.

"Hey, you know... Dean's gonna be starting school, too."

Jimmy nodded. The lightheartedness had been fading fast as they talked. Now it was almost gone.

"Do you think you'd be a little less unhappy about going back to school if you knew Dean was going to be there, too?"

Jimmy looked at him from under his arm, doubt clear in his blue eyes, flickering in the old firelight. "That's not gonna happen," he said flatly. "Uncle John will keep him close, always, both of them, and Uncle John never stops traveling."

Bobby smiled. "What if you were wrong, just this once?"

Jimmy popped up again, almost as quickly as when he heard that Dean was on the phone. His eyes were wide and unbelieving. "Is that what he wanted to talk to you about?"

Bobby nodded, enormously glad to be giving the kid good news, just this once. "You won't be in the same grade, but kindergarten through sixth is all in the same building, so I'm sure you'll find a way to see each other. And after school, of course, and weekends."

Those blue eyes slowly widened until they seemed to take up half his face. "They're coming back here?"

"Tomorrow."

Jimmy grinned, bigger and brighter and broader than he had since the Winchesters had first driven away. He lunged forward to throw his arms around Bobby's neck in an exuberant hug, then ran off, bounding up the stairs, his cry trailing behind him in a wave of joy. "I have to get my room ready!"

Bobby chuckled softly and turned away.

Maybe the school year wasn't going to be so horrible, after all.

Maybe it would be okay if Castiel didn't come back.

Even as that thought half-formed in his mind, Bobby knew it was false. Jimmy was Castiel was Jimmy was Castiel. Even if Bobby didn't really want the so-called angel around, this eerie reminder of Jimmy's pain, he was part of the boy. And the truth was that Bobby missed him, too, missed his serious expression and big words and earnest, ancient eyes. If someone had asked Bobby two months ago, he would have said he'd be fine if "old Jimmy" disappeared forever, leaving behind just the happy, singing child who loved Bartholomew and food and following Bobby around like a puppy. But things had changed. These two...they were two sides of the same coin, diametrically opposed, yet still made of the same substance, the same stuff. Castiel had earned his respect and trust just as Jimmy had earned his affection and loyalty.

It was unfair, maybe, to pin all of his hopes on a five-year-old who was traumatized himself. But Bobby was really hoping that having Dean around would make this better, somehow, some way. Just knowing that he was coming had already made an enormous difference for Jimmy. Maybe things would turn out all right.

"Pinnin' all your hopes on tomorrow, Singer," Bobby muttered to himself disgustedly. "Just watch out you don't suddenly pop on a little red wig and burst into song."

Still. Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.

(End)


	7. Rain Falling Down Short #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> School is torture for Jimmy. Bobby tries everything he can.

The school bus pulled up outside the salvage yard in a puff of dust and a whine of aging brakes. Bobby, standing on the porch waiting, winced and wished they would maintain those yellow beasts right. Soon enough the boys emerged out of the dust and sound, small and colorful in their long-sleeved shirts and blue jeans. Dean ran toward the house with his tiny backpack in one hand, floppy hair flying out behind him, and Jimmy followed more slowly, gripping the straps of his pack, which was properly and decorously exactly where it belonged.

"Sammy?" Dean asked breathlessly, barely pausing on the porch long enough to give Bobby an imploring look. He pointed toward the back of the house, and Dean was off, eager to see his baby brother.

"How was school?" Bobby asked the other boy, still several feet away.

Jimmy just grunted, continuing past him into the house and to the kitchen, where he set his backpack on a chair and sat down at the table.

And really, it was sort of a dumb question. The answer was always the same. Bobby asked anyway, in a vain hope that it would change someday, but he knew what that pained little grunt and glum expression meant. Jimmy was nothing if not eloquent in his silences.

Bobby heaved a sigh and followed the boy into the house.

School was torture for Jimmy. Bobby did his best to not feel like a horrible ogre for making him go. Even John Winchester, who was one of the toughest sumbitches Bobby had ever met, got kind of melty-eyed when he had to take the boys to school and Jimmy got that tragic expression on his face.

Nothing Bobby tried seemed to help. The teachers at the school all knew him by name, and usually said, "Hello, Mr. Singer," the moment they picked up the phone, before he could identify himself. They told him how the day had gone, patiently listened to his suggestions, bit their tongues at his gruff intimations that maybe they could be doing a better job at helping this damaged kid re-adjust to life without an abusive foster dad. Nothing they tried seemed to make a difference.

If Dean talked a little more readily, Bobby would be getting daily reports from him, too. He knew that Jimmy liked having Dean there, though, even if he couldn't say it. It just didn't seem to make school any better for him, that was all. Every day Bobby fixed a good breakfast and had a snack waiting when the boys came home, hoping that food would take some of the edge off. He started buying Ding Dongs for Jimmy's lunchbox, too.

Ding Dongs.

Bobby didn't even  _like_  Ding Dongs.

But Jimmy did. Jimmy loved anything remotely chocolatey. And Bobby...well, he had already pretty much turned his life upside-down for this boy. Plastic-like snack cakes just felt like the final, irreversible step. He had a kid now, and the kid took priority. Over everything.

It wouldn't be so bad if he just knew how to help him.

Worst was homework. Jimmy twisted himself up into knots over it, every single day. He sat at the kitchen table with papers in front of him and pencil in hand, all hunched up and often holding his stomach. "Let me help you," Bobby offered every day, in various wheedling tones, but the boy always shook his head.

"I have to do it myself."

Which probably meant that he wasn't letting Castiel help, either, and Bobby had to struggle damn hard to push down his frustration at the kid cutting off a part of his own mind. It made the poor child so miserable. And there wasn't a thing Bobby could do about it. This utter helplessness had to be one of the worst things he had ever felt, and he felt it every day.

The boy didn't even get bad marks. They weren't amazing, but they weren't terrible, either. Plenty of little smiley face stickers. Jimmy was gloomily convinced that this couldn't last, though, that every new assignment was going to be a failure.

Dean, being in kindergarten, didn't usually have homework. Very occasionally he had a worksheet which he took care of on the way home, scribbling with the paper on his lap or against the window. He had much better things to do. The minute Dean stepped off the bus (or out of Bobby's truck or his daddy's Impala), he raced to the house to see how Sammy was doing. While Jimmy sweated and struggled his way through hours of white knuckles twisted in his hair or knotted around his pencil, Dean played with his baby brother or followed John around. Or, sometimes, Bobby. He seemed to understand that Jimmy needed to be alone, that he needed to do it "all by himself."

Bobby saw him watching the older boy, though, big green eyes wide and worried. Dean worried all too often, Bobby had noticed. Natural, perhaps, after what he'd experienced, but still a hard thing to see in someone so young.

One day, though, Dean didn't do his worksheet in the car. Glancing in the rearview mirror, Bobby could see the little boy holding the paper firmly in his lap, occasionally glancing at Jimmy. The older boy stared out the window, sad and distant, arms tight around the backpack in his lap. At home, Jimmy trudged to the kitchen, as usual, and Dean went to check on Sammy.

But a few minutes later Dean was back, climbing up next to Jimmy where he sat at the kitchen table, morosely eating his after-school snack of celery sticks with peanut butter and raisins. Bobby stood discreetly at the sink, pretending to rinse some dishes that were already sparkling clean, watching the boys out of the corner of his eye.

Silently, Dean set his worksheet on the table and slid it over where Jimmy could see. He was kneeling on his chair, leaning over the table on his elbows so he could look in the older boy's face. It was a sheet of numbers, Bobby saw, one through ten lined up top to bottom on ruled lines with dashes down the center, two solid numerals followed with dotted ones, then blank places to continue practicing. He'd done the same sort of work when he was Dean's age many years ago, and children of the next generation would no doubt do the same.

Jimmy looked at the sheet, then at Dean, entirely without comprehension. He finished chewing his last mouthful and swallowed, then tilted his head to the side, watching his little friend. "What is it, Dean?"

So gentle, the boy was. He was always gentle, but particularly so with little Dean and Sammy. That was one thing Bobby had never been as a kid. His childhood had been rough and tumble, neighbors and cousins wrestling in the dirt, running with the dogs, bothering the chickens. But Jimmy was the gentlest boy Bobby had ever seen.

Dean tapped the paper and pushed it a little closer, giving Jimmy an expectant look.

Jimmy's forehead wrinkled up, and that old familiar frown stole across his face, making him look too old, too serious. Almost like Castiel, but Bobby knew that this was still Jimmy, small and hurt and lost. "I don't understand."

Dean pursed his lips, letting his head bow in exasperation. Then he looked up again, his ridiculously long lashes shading his eyes. "Show me."

Jimmy blinked, large and slow. "Show...you?"

"Show me." Dean pushed the paper closer, making it bend against Jimmy's arm. "I don't know how. You hafta show me."

Jimmy sat back, abruptly trembling. "I can't, Dean... I...I'm no good, I'm not good enough for...for..."

 _"Jimmy."_  Dean reached over and poked him in the side. "I seen you do it. You got numbers alla time.  _Show_  me."

Bobby went still at the sink without realizing it, just watching the little tableau. He all but held his breath, waiting for an answer.

Poor Jimmy was getting tearful already, breath speeding up, hands shaking where they gripped the edge of the table. He just couldn't believe that he could handle even this simple task correctly. And it would kill him to fail Dean, just kill him.

"Jimmy." Dean tilted his head to the side and looked up at him with his huge eyes and sad little face. "Please."

Well, that did it. Jimmy held out for a moment longer, but then he was nodding, the movement jerky but sincere. "Okay. Okay, I'll try."

He pulled the paper a little closer and pointed at the first number. Both boys ignored the way his finger shook, wavering over the thick black lines. "All right, so, you see, with this one you start at the top and draw a line to the bottom..."

Bobby blinked and stared at the kitchen window for a moment, then went back to pretending to wash the dishes. He listened to Dean asking his short, pointed questions, to Jimmy shakily answering, hesitantly at first but then with a touch of confidence.

And that was the beginning.

The next day it happened again. Dean didn't have homework, so he brought Jimmy something else and wouldn't leave him alone until he got an answer. He wanted Jimmy to read to him, or tell him about frogs, or explain why Bartholomew was so itchy behind his ears. It was always something. And every day, Jimmy grew a little more easy, a little more confident, a little stronger in himself and his abilities.

Bobby Singer still didn't believe in angels. But he was starting to believe in miracles. And this golden-haired little boy with his green eyes and his quiet questions and his enormous heart—he was definitely one of them.

(End)


	8. I Feel the Failure of Protection in My Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well, something has happened, yes," the principal said slowly. "Not to your son, per se. More accurately, he did something to someone else."

"Winchester! Phone call!"

Forehead wrinkling in confusion, John put his heels to the floor and rolled himself out from under the car he'd been working on. He rocked to his feet and pulled a shop rag from his pocket to wipe off as much grease as possible. It was a small garage, only a two-man operation since John had arrived, and it was a matter of half-a-dozen quick strides to cross the stained concrete work floor to reach his boss. Keith Oprisko stood in the doorway to the closet-sized office, holding the off-white handset in one hand, his eyebrows raised.

No one had ever called John here at his job before. He didn't give out the telephone number much, didn't even know anyone around Sioux Falls except Bobby Singer and Sammy's babysitter and...and the school.

Something had happened to Dean.

Just like that, a powerful band of steel appeared around John's chest and began to tighten, too quick, too hard. He grabbed the phone from Oprisko's fingers with more force than was necessary. Oprisko just gave him a quirk of the eyebrow and let him have it, going back to invoices.

"Yes?" John barked into the phone.

"Mr. Winchester? This is Mable Sebree, the principal at Jackson Elementary. We spoke when you enrolled Dean at the start of the year."

"Yes, I remember you." The words were harsh, terse, more suited for the jungle than a telephone conversation. John took a breath, tried to tone it down. "Has something happened to my son, Ms. Sebree? Is he sick, hurt?" That was all the poor kid needed, and just when he was starting to get his feet under him, starting to get along in school, starting to make friends. At least one friend, anyway.

"Well, something has happened, yes," she said slowly. "Not  _to_  your son, per se. More accurately, he did something to someone else."

"Dean?" John rocked back on his heels, pressing one hand to his forehead. He gave himself one second to feel the relief—not sick, not injured—let it flow over and through him, before confusion swiftly took its place.  _"Dean_  did something to someone else? He's in kindergarten!"

"And he has a mean right hook, apparently."

John felt his voice go low and dangerous without particularly meaning it to. "Excuse me?"

The principal let out a breath. "I apologize, Mr. Winchester. That was an ill-conceived attempt at levity. In any case, everyone involved in the incident is in my office now. We're still not sure exactly what happened, though, since one of them seems completely incapable of speaking at the moment. We'd like to hear all sides before we determine the outcome of this, but it's unclear as of now."

"My son, right? He's not talking?"  _Dammit. I knew this was too much, too soon._

"Oh, no, Dean is quite talkative. And very indignant. It's another child..." John heard rustling papers, evidently Sebree looking at some notes. "...Jimmy Novak, he's not talking. He seems very upset, but he just shakes his head when we question him."

"Jimmy? Jimmy's involved in this?" John pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, despite the grease still staining them. He couldn't imagine gentle little Jimmy getting into a playground altercation, no matter how he stretched his imagination. Though Dean, he had to admit...Dean he could imagine getting into a fight all too easily. "Is he all right?"

"You know him? We've been trying to get ahold of his guardian, but Mr. Singer seems to be away from his telephone."

"Bobby's on a trip."  _Hunting trip. Left me behind with the kids, the fink. See if I ever let him do that again._  "He'll be home this evening."

"Oh..." More paper rustling. The principal's voice went oddly hesitant. "Yes...I, I see that you share an address..."

"It's not like that," John said swiftly. "I rent a trailer on his property. The boys are friends."

"Of course." A few moments of silence. John couldn't begin to fill them. "Mr. Winchester, I think you'd better come in."

"Yeah. I'm on my way."

X

Dean wasn't just indignant. He was  _mad._  Jackson Elementary was a relatively small school, and John had no problem remembering how to get back to the little clutch of offices with the principal's in the center like a brooding hen. He'd been there only a month and a half before, after all, registering his boy for his first school in their new life. He passed the receptionist with barely a nod, heading straight for the chairs outside Mabel Sebree's door.

"Daddy!"

Dean was standing on a chair, waiting for him. His lips were tight and pale with anger, face drawn, hair mussed. John couldn't see a mark on him, but the long-sleeved shirt and jeans covered most of him. He'd check him out in a minute.

First, though, there was Jimmy. Jimmy, who sat in the chair next to Dean's, braced and trembling, his hands clutching the seat on either side of his thighs, arms straight, shoulders hunched and wracked with tension. His head was down, his eyes fixed on the floor. And a dark red mark on his cheek was already starting to mottle into a bruise.

"Jimmy." John knelt in front of him, callused, grease-stained palm covering a fistful of small, whitened knuckles. Jimmy turned his face away, unable to meet his eyes. "It's all right, kiddo. It's over."

He wasn't sure what had happened here, but he was starting to get an inkling.

Dean reached out to grab his shoulder in a tiny fist, bunching up the fabric of John's jacket and pulling it tight. "He hurt him, Daddy. That mean boy was hurting Jimmy. No one gets to hurt Jimmy."

John looked up at him, trying not to smile. Yep, definitely getting an inkling. "So what did you do about it?"

Dean's eyes were made of green fire, brilliant and bright, and so like Mary's that John had to blink back a sudden surge of loss. "I hit him with a hockey stick."

"All right. Okay. Let me smooth this over with Ms. Sebree, and we're outta here."

Dean nodded, satisfied, and John stood up, giving Jimmy's fingers a quick squeeze as he went.

Sebree stood in the door to her office, waiting. John gave her a nod. "Where's the other one?"

She tilted her head, leading the way inside and shutting the door behind them. "Dennis is in the nurse's office. I had him in here for a bit, but he said that his head hurt."

The office was neat, tidy, a potted plant on the desk looking over a small kingdom of carefully placed papers and pens like a benevolent dictator. John sat across from her as she took her place at her desk, folding her hands in front of her. "Yes. Apparently my boy has a mean right hook. Or a mean hockey stick, anyway."

Sebree nodded gravely. "Mr. Winchester, we need to talk."

He simply nodded back.

"I'm...worried about your son. According to Dennis, he was playing catch with Jimmy when he accidentally hit Jimmy with the ball, and Dean ran up and hit him for no reason. Quite extraordinary, really... Dean's class wasn't at recess at the time, only fifth grade, so Dean must have seen them out the window, then left the room without permission and went out to the playground for the express purpose of hitting Dennis with a stick."

"What does Dean say?"

"He says he saw Dennis 'being mean' to Jimmy. And he took it upon himself to defend his friend." She leaned back in her chair, blinking solemnly. "I must say I've never heard of such a thing before. That your little boy...he's five, isn't he?...that such a young child should take it upon himself to protect an older boy, five years his senior, to the point of mistaking a game of catch for bullying... Well. It speaks of a possessive, jealous streak, strange for someone so young. And perhaps dangerous."

John could feel the little frown on his lips desperately wanting to pull down into a big, big frown. A huge one. "Principal Sebree," he began, careful to keep his voice even. "I think you're missing something here. This isn't just about Dean being protective, even possessive, which I can certainly see. This is also a case of one child's word against another's. Dennis says he wasn't doing anything wrong. Dean says that he was. From what you're saying... You seem to believe Dennis, not my boy."

A small wrinkle appeared on Mabel Sebree's formerly smooth forehead. So that hadn't occurred to her, then. "I... Yes, Mr. Winchester, it may be that I am making assumptions without proper evidence. But as Jimmy refuses to discuss the matter, I must handle this situation with the facts on hand. Dennis has never been a discipline problem before..."

"And Dean is new here, so you assume that he's at fault."

She blinked. Slowly. Three times. "When you put it like that, it sounds terrible."

"Principal Sebree." He leaned forward and rested his hands on the edge of the desk, looking her in the eye. "Ma'am. You seem like a reasonable person, someone who only wants to do right by these children. I appreciate that. What do you know about Jimmy's history?"

Mabel Sebree looked down, fumbling through her papers. "Very little, actually. His file is quite thin."

"Well, I will tell you something. In confidence. You're aware that Jimmy is Bobby Singer's foster child?"

"Yes."

"Before he came to Bobby, his situation was...bad. His last foster family was...well, let's just say they were about as far as you can get from an ideal family. He's not 'refusing to discuss the matter,' as you so calmly put it. This is how he deals with being hurt or threatened, by shutting down, by, sort of, taking himself away."  _To put it mildly._  "From the way he's acting out there, my conclusion is that Dennis was, in fact, 'being mean' to him. And I sincerely doubt that that bruise on his cheek came from a missed ball in a game of catch."

"Mr. Winchester, I had no idea."

"I know," he said soothingly. "That's why I don't blame you for thinking as you did. But you can trust me, ma'am. If my boy thought there was a reason to be angry, a reason to run out of his class and hit another child with a hockey stick, then there was. No ifs. No buts. There was a reason. I trust him."

"You trust the judgment of a five-year-old boy?"

"Absolutely." John rose smoothly to his feet and tucked his hands in his pockets. "Thank you for your time, ma'am. I'd like to take Jimmy and Dean home now, if I may. Hopefully Jimmy will be able to discuss his perspective on the incident once he's calmed down a little. I'll let you know as soon as I learn anything."

She gave him a nod, calm as ever. "Certainly. I hope Jimmy is all right after all this. I am very sorry that he has suffered here." Her serenity faltered for a moment as she dipped her head, raising a hand to rub at her forehead. "Truly, that's the last thing I would ever want to happen at my school."

"It wasn't your fault," he said, and carefully took his leave.

Dean was waiting for him. He had pried one of Jimmy's hands away from the chair and was holding it in his, fiercely, and yeah, John could see a possessive streak. It didn't surprise him. Dean was that way with Sammy, too. Even with him. Getting there with Bobby.

Jimmy was special, though, had been from the moment Dean first heard his voice on the telephone. They had chosen each other, somehow, through the distance, despite their differences. John had found it creepy at first, but now he was only glad for it, one of the few things that had happened to them since Mary's loss that was not only strange, but sweet as well.

"C'mon, boys. Let's go home."

Dean hopped down from the chair and tugged Jimmy's hand, pulling him along. The older boy hesitated, clinging to his chair for a moment, then allowed himself to be carried along by Dean's insistence. He gave John a tiny, shrinking look, then fixed his gaze on the floor again. John let Dean lead the way, holding back a bit to put a hand on Jimmy's shoulder. He wasn't surprised to feel the boy flinch, and he let go almost immediately.

At the car, Dean opened the front passenger door and pushed Jimmy inside, forcing him to sit in the middle of the bench seat, between Dean and John. Another protective gesture in a day that had been full of them. John let him have his way, silently sliding behind the wheel, starting the car, pulling out of the school parking lot as red leaves stirred in their wake.

Two miles from home, the silence was broken by Dean's urgent voice. "Daddy, pull over. Jimmy's gonna be sick."

John pulled over on the shoulder in a spray of gravel. "Out, out!"

In seconds Jimmy was on his hands and knees in the short, prickly brown grass on the edge of the ditch while Dean hung back a few feet away, failing to suppress a grimace. One small hand traced the Impala's grill, and Jimmy puked and puked. John exited the car more slowly, came around to stand by his son.

"You gonna...help him out?" He tilted his chin toward Jimmy.

Dean's nose wrinkled. He kept his voice low, for John alone. "Throwing up is gross. 'Sides, I dunno what to do for that. Is there anything you can do for that?"

It was a good point. John shrugged, then made his way over to the distressed boy with hesitant steps, finally crouching beside him, within touching distance but trying not to crowd him. Jimmy had gotten to the point of throwing up nothing but long strings of pinkish saliva, throat and chest heaving, his arms shaking beneath him.

"Hey, Jimmy." John laid a hand on his back, tried to be ready to catch him in case his arms buckled. "It's okay. It's okay, now."

Jimmy shook his head shakily from side to side and sat back, scrubbing the back of his hand over his mouth. He seemed to press back into John's hand, trembling through the layers of shirt and jacket. John flattened his palm and tightened his fingers to let the kid know he wasn't going anywhere.

"Am I in trouble?"

God, the boy's voice was tiny. So fragile and lost and broken and terrified almost to death. Did he... Could he really think...?

John drew in a breath. "No. No, you're not in any trouble. None at all. Neither is Dean. You didn't do anything wrong."

Jimmy carded his fingers into his hair and pressed his hands against his scalp, holding tight and hard, as if punishing himself. "If I ever got sent to the principal office's in...back there...if I ever got in trouble... Mr. Baker would be so angry. He'd be so angry, Uncle John, I don't... Please don't be mad at me. I didn't mean to get Dean in trouble."

"Jimmy, you didn't do anything wrong. You aren't in trouble." He said it as firmly as he knew how, fighting past the lump in his throat. He was so far out of his depth, here, no idea what to do. Why wasn't Bobby here? He'd know what to do for this kid. He'd hug him and pet his hair and make him grilled cheese sandwiches, and Jimmy would slowly forget his terror, let the memories subside, and go play Lincoln Logs with Dean and Sammy, and everything would be okay. Singer was a bastard, anyway, for leaving John alone with this.

John cast his eyes to the heavens as if for guidance, even though he was ninety-five percent sure that there was no one up there anyway, then decided he might as well go for it. "I'm not mad, Jimmy," he murmured, and pulled the boy into his arms, holding tight. "Don't be scared anymore."

He could do grilled cheese. He could definitely do grilled cheese.

X

They picked up Sammy from the babysitter (the nice older lady two houses down from Bobby's place), and John made grilled cheese for lunch. Jimmy didn't eat much, nowhere near as much as he usually did, but at least he got a little food in him, and John gave him a bottle of the special store of ginger ale Bobby kept for the little sicknesses that always came up when you had young kids around the joint. There was play, of course, Lincoln Logs, a kids' record on the turntable in the corner, but quieter than usual and more subdued. Even little Sammy seemed to sense the somberness in the air and kept his toddler-shrieks to a minimum.

The mottled place on Jimmy's cheek slowly filled out, turned colors, dark and huge and infinitely wrong, like a stain in a sunlit sky.

John had seen the light blinking on the answering machine when they came in the door, but figured it was just Principal Sebree calling to tell Bobby about the incident at school, so he ignored it at first. Once the boys were setting in the living room, playing, he hit the button and listened. The first two messages were from the school, as he'd suspected, but the third was from Singer himself.

"Winchester. Ran into a little trouble on the hunt. Will you be all right if I take an extra day? Tell Jimmy I'm thinking about him and hoping he doesn't have another nightmare like last week. Tell your rascal boys to stay out of my file cabinets—there's scrap paper for coloring in the bottom drawer of my desk, dammit, that's what it's for. Here's the number where you can reach me."

John barely waited for the string of numbers to finish before picking up the phone and dialing. He scraped his thumbnail against his index finger as he listened to it ring, hoping Bobby was in the room and not out killing something or going to the library or whatever the hell Bobby did on a hunt. After the second ring the phone picked up, John's heart slowed back down to a reasonable rate, and he did his best to chew Singer's ear off over the phone.

"Do  _not_  take another day. I will  _not_  be all right. Forget the hunt and come home. You can call someone else to do it, or go back later, or anything except stay longer, you bastard. How long will it take you to pack up and get back here?"

A few seconds of silence, and Bobby said dryly, "I take it something happened."

"Jimmy needs you."

"I'll be back in three hours."

And John heard only the dial tone.

He hung the phone up and wandered over to the living room, leaning on the jamb with one shoulder to watch the kids play. He would need to talk to Dean, sometime, explain to him that violence was a last resort and he really should have talked to an adult first, but also that yes, of course, he had every right to hit a bully with a hockey stick and John was glad he'd done it. Maybe he should give the kid a few pointers, too, show him how to throw a punch. You were never too young to start learning.

Before that, though, he needed to get Jimmy's story. He'd promised Mabel Sebree. And if Dennis was the kind of small jackass John figured he was, he deserved to be punished to the fullest extent of Jackson Elementary's law.

Not right now, though. He'd give the child a few hours to calm down, fix popcorn and hot chocolate, read to the kids from one of the old Hardy Boys books Dean had found in an upstairs bedroom. After that Jimmy would be as relaxed as he would get, and hopefully he wouldn't freak out too much.

Or he could just make Bobby do it. Yeah. John liked that plan.

He was still thinking about that when Jimmy leaned over and murmured something in Dean's ear. The younger boy nodded, casual and unconcerned, and continued building his log cabin, while Jimmy stood and moved over to John. The young boy's face was clear, calm, completely unafraid, marred only by that big, ugly bruise.

John knew what this was. He stood up straight and backed off a little. "Castiel?"

He nodded serenely. "Jimmy asked me to talk to you. He doesn't want to discuss it. Or think about it. Or even remember that it happened. So here I am."

"All right." John ran a hand through his hair. He genuinely liked Jimmy, but this other personality still gave him the heebie jeebies. Couldn't show that, though. "Let's go to the kitchen."

They sat at the table. Jimmy—Castiel—folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on them, watching John with a gaze of cool blue, and let his legs dangle, occasionally kicking. It was a very childlike pose, only belied by his old, old eyes. "Dennis has been harassing Jimmy for quite some time. Weeks, now."

John nodded. "Why didn't you do something? Tell someone?"

"I offered. Jimmy didn't want me to help. He wanted to prove that he could handle school on his own. It's very difficult for him, though." Castiel turned his head to rest his cheek on his forearms, gazing out the window over the sink. "Very difficult," he repeated softly, painfully.

"I know."

"It's insidious, you know. The things humans do each other. It's the same in the memories Jimmy has let me see. Mr. Baker and this little boy named Dennis, they both started the same way. Just words. Little bumps in the hall. Nothing worth complaining about if you don't want to be labeled a sissy. A coward. A whiner. For Jimmy, this time, it all had the horrible pull of inevitability, as well. It had happened before. Why not again? He thinks he deserves it, somehow, for some unfathomable reason. I understand a great deal about the universe, Mr. Winchester. I know a lot about everything my father has created and ordered and set in motion. But somehow I cannot comprehend this."

Right. This part of Jimmy thought he was an angel. John leaned his chin on his fist and didn't comment.

"Today, Jimmy was too shocked to let me take control, but if he had, I don't know if I would have been able to prevent myself from smiting that little boy where he stood. Isn't that terrible?" He traced some invisible pattern on the table with his index finger, rubbing his fingernail on the glossy surface. "Speaking of, someone needs to look into Dennis's home life. That sort of behavior doesn't arise from a vacuum."

He seemed to be waiting for some sort of acknowledgment this time, so John nodded hesitantly. "I'll see what I can do. But Jimmy...Castiel...I need you to tell me what happened today. And I suppose I'll need you to repeat the story to Principal Sebree, so she can decide what she should do. Right now it's Dennis's word against Dean's. We need to know the real story."

Castiel just kept tracing that fingernail, back and forth, back and forth. "It is as Dean says. Dennis was being mean to Jimmy. He was always careful to do it when the monitor wasn't looking, of course, and most of the time it wasn't that serious. Just little names, taunts, sometimes shoving him. And then he went too far. Dean didn't like that."

"So Dennis...punched you. Punched Jimmy."

"Yes. Because Jimmy didn't want to play with him." He looked up. "I think Dennis is lonely. No one else wants to play with him either. That doesn't give him the right to hit Jimmy, though."

"No, it doesn't." John shook his head, meeting Castiel's gravity with his own. It felt supremely strange to be having this very serious, very grown-up conversation with a ten-year-old boy, but he could handle this part.

Castiel put his hands flat on the table and pushed back with a little sigh, sitting upright in the chair again. "Is Uncle Bobby coming home soon?"

"He'll be back in a few hours."

"Okay. Good. Thank you for talking with me, Uncle John."

He climbed down from the chair and went back to Dean and Sammy. John rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, watching him go. He could see the moment when Castiel became Jimmy, when his posture loosened, went less rigid, when his steps lightened, and he seemed to be only ten years old again instead of ten thousand.

Bobby really couldn't get home fast enough.

X

Popcorn, hot chocolate, Hardy Boys. John's plan worked out pretty well. By the time the sun started to dip down outside he was on the couch, a sleepy Sammy cuddled in his lap with Dean on one side and Jimmy on the other, both curled up with their heads on his arms, listening with rapt attention. It made it a little hard to turn the pages and he could feel his left hand slowly going numb, but it didn't bother him much. A fire burned on the hearth, casting red and yellow shadows over the room, and everything was warm and close and comfortable and as safe as John ever felt, now.

Jimmy's head popped up off his shoulder when he heard the crunch of Bobby's tires outside, and he slipped down from the couch and was out the door before John finished the sentence he was on. Dean and Sammy stayed where they were, and John kept going, occasionally craning his head to glance out the window. He caught Bobby and Jimmy's reunion in a series of one-second snapshots, that way. The boy rushing to the Chevelle, Bobby kneeling down holding the kid's face in his hands, the two making their way back to the house each with an arm around the other. As they sometimes did, they settled on the porch swing to watch the sunset, Jimmy tucked under the man's arm with his head on his chest, and John turned his full attention back to the book.

When the chapter was done, he hefted Sammy in his arms and herded Dean out the back door to their trailer. It was good to have their own place, even though they spent most of their waking hours in Bobby's house, anyway. It had kept the two men from killing each other, at least, and also meant that John didn't have to go through all the parenting classes and other rigmarole Bobby was submitting himself to in order to be a foster parent for Jimmy. The trailer's furnishings were basic, but comfortable, and John put the boys to bed, even though he knew that Dean would soon be out of his bed, lying in Sammy's crib with his arms wrapped around his brother. John smoothed his hand over each little head, then put on his leather coat and slowly made his way back to the house, going around the outside to stand on the ground by the porch.

He stood there with his hands in his pockets, watching the sun go down. The angle kept the other two out of his view, and Bobby and Jimmy's voices were just murmurs from here, unintelligible. But he could hear the tone of the words. Both were calm, at least, though John could hear the residual pain shivering beneath Jimmy's voice, the suppressed anger in Bobby's.

After a while he heard a little shift of movement, and Bobby's voice rang out strong and clear. "Oh, come up here and sit with us, you jackass. We've had enough alone time."

Jimmy giggled, small and sweet, and John grinned as he walked around the corner and up the steps. Bobby and Jimmy swayed slowly back and forth in the porch swing, and he sat in the rocking chair nearby. "How was the hunt?"

Bobby waved a hand in dismissal, lifting it just a few inches from where it rested on Jimmy's shoulder. "Fine, fine. I was almost done. Had all the information I needed, just hadn't gotten to the last dirty deed. I gave it to Jim Murphy. He'll take care of it tomorrow or the next day."

He had pulled his jacket around to share with Jimmy, pressing the boy close and warm against his side. John had to smile a little at it, though it made him feel like a sap.

Jimmy craned his head back to look up at Bobby. "I was praying for you. That you'd be safe and everything would go good. Did you feel it?"

"Sure I did, puddin'," Bobby said softly, squeezing him in and planting a kiss on his forehead. "Sure I did."

John kind of doubted that, but it wasn't something you said. Jimmy's faith was, frankly, pretty bewildering after all he'd been through. But it helped him. Bobby did nothing to discourage it, and neither did John.

They sat on the porch, chatting about this and that, until the sun was entirely gone and the autumn chill began to deepen, digging into their bones. Jimmy had been yawning off and on for several minutes by then, and Bobby sent him to get ready for bed.

The men sat in silence for a few moments, staring into the dark. It was a familiar feeling.

"I never even thought about bullies," Bobby said. "All the other problems Jimmy has with school, and it just...never occurred to me." He gave a small, bitter chuckle. "Of course it would happen, though. Of course my kid would get picked on, pushed around by yet another human being. He hasn't been through enough already, I guess."

"You couldn'ta seen it coming," John said.

"I shoulda, though. I should be able to see anything that's gonna hurt him, stop it before it happens. Isn't that what you're supposed to do? Isn't that...isn't that what being a dad is all about?"

John stared into the dark. He felt his eyes burning, too long between blinks, but he couldn't seem to move. Not even for that.

Bobby let out a breath. "Sorry. I didn't mean it that way."

"It's..." It wasn't okay. Nothing about this was remotely okay. "It is what it is, I guess. Life isn't fair."

"No. No, it isn't."

And they sat in the dark, looking on nothing. Any monster that came tonight would have to go through them.

(End)


	9. And Singing Through the Seasons Young and Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's gonna be a good Christmas. Dean can tell. He's smart like that. Now all he has to do is convince Jimmy.

Uncle Bobby really wanted Christmas to be good. Dean could tell. Uncle Bobby was a good guy. Dean sorta wanted to tell him that it was gonna be okay and he didn't have to try so hard.

But then he would look at Jimmy, who had gotten real, real quiet when the grown-ups started talking about Christmas, and he realized that maybe Uncle Bobby did have to try kind of hard, after all. Not so much for him or Sammy, because they liked all of that stuff. But for Jimmy, definitely.

They were making garlands with popcorn and cranberries, sticking the needles through the fluffy white kernels and the hard red berries, pulling them through to the end of the line and the big knots Bobby had made for them. Jimmy's string was lots longer than Dean's already, because he was bigger and his fingers worked better, but Dean was determined to catch up and have a string that was even longer. He had gotten distracted, eating some of the popcorn even though Uncle Bobby had said not to, but it didn't taste very good without any salt or butter, so he gave it up quick. The hard cranberries had tasted really bad too, but Dean still ate three of them to make sure. It didn't seem possible that anything that looked that pretty could taste that bad, so he'd had to test it several times.

He poked his finger with the needle again and called it some bad words, just like Daddy did. "Fuckin' needle! Damn it!"

Jimmy frowned at him. But he didn't say anything, like Dean had hoped. Jimmy usually scolded him for using bad words, but sometimes he didn't care. It depended on which part of him was out at the moment. Right now he obviously cared, but he still didn't say anything.

Dean strung on another two kernels, then added a cranberry. He stared at Jimmy the whole time, but Jimmy kept his eyes on his work. He was a lot more careful than Dean, always five popcorns, then a berry, five popcorns, then a berry. His string was very neat and tidy looking, not all over the place like Dean's.

Finally, he just had to ask. "Doncha like Christmas, Jimmy?"

Jimmy shrugged. He didn't even look up.

"I like Christmas," Dean went on, resolute. So Jimmy didn't feel like talking. Dean got that. Sometimes he didn't feel like talking, either. But right now he did, so he was gonna talk.

"Last Christmas was weird," Dean said. "We were in this hotel place, and Daddy didn't even get a tree. But he got lights and hung them on the potted plant, and we had presents and stuff and we watched Charlie Brown and Rudolph and everything. That was the bad time, though, and Daddy was still crying a lot and Sammy was too little to be good and I wasn't talking then and everything was messed up. But it was still Christmas, and I still liked Christmas. It was just bad not having...you know. Missing her. That was the bad part. But there were still good things. Because it was Christmas."

Dean stopped, wrinkling up his nose. He didn't feel like he was getting this across very well. He didn't know lots of big words like Jimmy and Uncle Bobby and he wasn't good at saying stuff. But he was trying. He stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth and viciously stabbed his needle through another cranberry, liking the way it felt, pushing through that resistance and feeling it give way, the needle free on the other side. It was easy and fun and cool.

Why couldn't everything be as easy as sticking cranberries? That would be nice.

"Do you miss your mommy and daddy?" he asked. "Is that why you don't like Christmas right now?"

Jimmy's hands went still around the popcorn garland. He stared down at it, fingers twitching on the table. His face was blank but his eyes were really, really sad.

Dean bent down a little to look in his face. "Christmas is still good, though. We're gonna have cookies tonight, even though it's not the weekend! And no school, and presents, and it's snowing right now so we can go sledding and have a snow fight and all sorts of stuff. And presents, Jimmy! I'm sure you'll get lots of presents. Daddy and Uncle Bobby have been acting _really, really_  sneaky for a long time, so there will probably be lots of really good ones. And this year is better than last year because we got you and Uncle Bobby now. Really, Jimmy, it's still gonna be good."

Jimmy looked at him carefully. He stirred the cranberry bowl with his fingers but didn't pick up another one. "Do you still miss your mommy, though?"

Dean had to look away for a moment. He didn't like to talk about her. He wanted to shut his mouth and not say anything else, but he had started this, so he felt sort of obligated to carry it through. "Yeah, of course. I'll always miss her, forever and ever."

"I'm sorry," the other boy said gravely, and this was that other part of Jimmy, the one who used big words and didn't smile very much and took such very, very good care of Dean and Sammy and Uncle Bobby, though no one but Dean really noticed that. "I tried to stop it, but things went wrong. I only made it worse."

Dean stared at him, meeting his big, serious eyes. Jimmy had never told him that before. Dean's voice shook a little, tiny and high and so weak he kinda wanted to rip it out of his own throat. "You tried to save my mommy?"

"I wanted to. I knew it would make things better for you and for Sam. It would make a difference in the way the years ran, the way events unfolded, and I hoped that those differences might eventually be enough to... But it didn't work. Instead, bad things happened to...to me, to m-my parents. I made everything so much worse. I failed you before we even met in this time."

Jimmy looked so old and sad and sorry that Dean couldn't stand it anymore. He put down his needle and climbed down from his chair. Then he went over to Jimmy's chair, where the boy was still kneeling, hands frozen on the table, and climbed up next to him and put his arms around Jimmy's neck. "You're making things better now, Jimmy. You make lots of things way better."

After a minute he felt Jimmy's stiff shoulders relax, falling down, and the older boy's skinny arms wrapped around Dean's middle, hugging tight. "You make things better, too. You make lots of things better."

This other Jimmy was so sad and guilty and twisted up inside about the loss of their parents. It didn't make much sense-how could he have saved Dean's mommy, so far away in Kansas? But he felt bad, so Dean felt bad too.

It wasn't right. You weren't supposed to feel so bad at Christmas. Christmas was about good things. Over Jimmy's shoulder, Dean watched the snow come down outside, soft and thick and everywhere.

Dean finally released his friend and climbed down from the chair. He marched away from the table with its half-finished garlands and starting putting on his boots. "C'mon, let's see if Uncle Bobby will let us go outside and play. I'm tired of popcorn and nasty berries."

Jimmy usually objected to leaving any project half-finished, (it was because he was more "sponsible" than Dean, Daddy said), but this time he nodded and got down from his chair and went to find Uncle Bobby.

Uncle Bobby didn't just give them permission—he came with them. Sammy was finally napping and he said he needed a break anyway.

Everything was white outside, like a blank page before Sammy took to it with his crayons, or maybe more like a coloring book before anyone colored in it. Except Dean's kindergarten teacher, Miss Farley, said that white was actually all of the colors mixed up, so maybe that meant that the world was totally full of color, not empty. But that made Dean's head hurt, so he quit thinking about it.

Their boots crunched through the snow, little feet, middle feet, big feet. Dean paused to look behind them, saw their tracks in the snow. Uncle Bobby's were a pretty straight line walking down an aisle between the junked cars, all made so beautiful and white in the snow. Jimmy was close beside him, holding his hand. Dean's tracks wandered here and there, but he stuck pretty close to his buddies.

Behind the junkyard, before the trees behind Uncle Bobby's property started, there was a wide open place kinda like a meadow. Daddy had his target for gun practice set up there, and Dean eyed it longingly. Maybe for Christmas Daddy would finally let him shoot a real gun. He wasn't too little, he wasn't. Or maybe in a month, when Dean turned six. That was big. Maybe Daddy would let him shoot then. Dean was getting big and he was being as sponsible as he could—surely Daddy had noticed.

"Dean?"

Uncle Bobby and Jimmy had paused, looking back at him. Jimmy's voice was muffled in the big scarf Bobby had wrapped around the bottom of his face right after he did Dean's, just his red-tipped nose peeking out above it, but his eyes were worried.

"I'm comin'." Dean ran to catch up, puffing out billows of steam like a little dragon. An awesome little dragon. Because he totally was.

Once he reached them, he looked around at the expanse of clear, pristine white and decided that it was definitely too empty. "Let's make snow angels!"

Without waiting for a response, he fell backward into the snow.

Dean lay there, staring up into the blue-gray sky. He swept his arms and legs back and forth, feeling them shift the snow, listening to the swishy noises his snowsuit made. The air was sharp and cold, but the suit protected him, kept him warm. His mom had showed him how to do this two winters ago.

He would never stop missing her.

Jimmy stood over him, watching him with a curious tilt to his head. "What are you doing?"

"I'm makin' a snow angel." With anyone else, Dean would have tacked a "duh" to the end of that. But this was Jimmy.

He popped to his feet to stand beside his friend, brushing the snow off his head and looking back at the impression he had made in the snow. "See? Wings and everything."

Jimmy tilted his head more, until he was almost looking at it completely sideways. "Oh. I see."

"Okay, you try now."

Dean spun around and pushed him in the middle, catching Jimmy off-guard. The older boy fell back with a startled  _woof_ of air and flopped down into the snow, then stared up at Dean from the fluffy white, his eyes big and blue and almost scared.

Uncle Bobby made a jerky move as if to come to his rescue, standing silent a few feet away, then chuckled suddenly and shook his head, backing off. "Boys..."

"I'm all right," Jimmy said breathlessly. "He just...surprised me."

"Now sweep your arms and legs up and down," Dean ordered, nudging Jimmy's boot with his foot. "C'mon. It's fun!"

Jimmy hesitated for a moment, then did it. He didn't stay on the ground for very long, though, before he got up and stood beside Dean to look down at their angels, side-by-side in the snow. He was panting a little, but his eyes sparkled.

"See?" Dean asked, nodding his head sharply, once, like Daddy did to emphasize a point. "Toldja it was fun."

Jimmy nodded, gulping the cold air, then turned to Bobby with an imploring look. "Will you do it too? Please, Uncle Bobby?"

Uncle Bobby melted right away. He always did when Jimmy looked at him like that. "Sure, puddin'."

Before they went back inside, that whole blank white spot was covered with angels, a multitude of the heavenly host, big and middle and little, all over every hill and even right up next to Daddy's gun target.

And once they got inside, of course, they found out that Sammy had woken up and climbed out of his crib all by himself and ate all the popcorn on the table even though it wasn't tasty at all. Dean made faces and scolded him and tried to get him to eat the cranberries, but he wouldn't do it, closing up his little mouth tight tight tight when Dean tried to poke them in and going, "Mm mm, Dee, no! No! Mm  _mm!"_

Uncle Bobby laughed and made them hot chocolate to warm them up. Jimmy watched them with that bright little smile of his, the one he tried to hide sometimes, shy and quiet behind his hand, but it was so bright that it couldn't help peeking out. So that was okay, then, Dean figured. The sadness was all forgotten and gone, and it was gonna be a great Christmas, it really was, just as soon as Daddy got home from work.

X

Christmas was great. Dean had known it would be, but it was still nice to find himself proven right. Daddy was home five whole days in a row and Dean got a scooter and Sammy got a Tonka trunk and Jimmy got like a million books. Something like that. Dean couldn't count that high, whatever number it was.

Jimmy still got sad now and then, at weird times and for reasons Dean couldn't figure out at all, but Dean kept pestering him out of his gloomy clouds whenever he could. And one day he ease-dropped accidentally, though he knew he wasn't supposed to, when Uncle Bobby and Jimmy were talking in the study all curled up in the big chair where they went sometimes when Jimmy needed a snuggle. And he heard about how Jimmy's last dad, Mr. Baker, had started being mean to him at Christmas last year, how he got drunk and hit Jimmy for the first time, and after that it never stopped. And that was why Jimmy had been scared of Christmas this year, because it made him think of that, even though he didn't want to and he was sorry he felt so bad, he didn't want Uncle Bobby to feel bad too, but he couldn't help it.

After that Dean had to go away for awhile and pound some of Sammy's building blocks together until he didn't feel so bad inside anymore. That was just about the worst thing he'd ever heard. He hoped that Mr. Baker was a monster, so his dad could go hunt him down and shoot him dead.

In school Dean's class had been making reindeer ornaments out of pipe cleaners and popsicle sticks and pompoms and stuff, and he'd been planning to give his to his daddy, but after that he decided to give it to Jimmy instead. Daddy would understand. He did, too, when Dean went and sat in his lap and wrapped his arms around his neck and whispered in his ear to tell him all about it. He made sure to tell him before they opened presents, so Daddy wouldn't be upset that Dean had given his only present to Jimmy. Daddy totally understood, of course, 'cause he was the awesomest dad in the whole world, and he hugged Dean tight and told him that he'd made the right choice.

Christmas morning came bright and beautiful. Dean knew Santa wasn't real anymore—he'd figured it out on his own—but the tree was still packed full of presents and it looked amazing and there were things for everyone. Dean was right: sneaky adults meant  _good_  presents.

After they opened all the presents the living room kinda looked like a wrapping-paper tornado had gone through it, and they lazed around in their pajamas and played with their toys, and Daddy and Uncle Bobby were looking through the books they had given each other with big, goofy grins on their faces. (They had gotten each other the same exact one, only different "additions," whatever that meant, and Dean didn't get why that made them laugh so hard and smile so big, but they were both happy, so it was okay.)

But Jimmy was sitting there surrounded by little piles of books like a tiny city full of skyscrapers, and he was sniffing with bright little tears in his eyes. Dean noticed and left off playing with his new cap gun to go poke his shoulder. "Jimmy, Jimmy. Don't cry, Jimmy. Isn't Christmas awesome? I toldja it would be."

The boy nodded, still sniffing. "I'm not sad. I just... Thank you for the reindeer, Dean." He'd already thanked him like ten times. "But I didn't get anyone any presents."

"You're a  _kid,"_  Dean informed him solemnly. "You're not  _s'posed_  to."

Jimmy looked at Uncle Bobby with a kind of helpless shrug. "I don't have anything else... Can I sing for you? Is that okay? It's all I have." He looked at Dean's daddy, too, asking permission with his eyes.

Of course they both nodded right away and put their books aside to listen. Dean sat up straighter, watching his friend. He reached over to grab the back of Sammy's pajamas and drag him over so he would listen, too, folding the baby into his lap and wrapping his arms around him. "'Course, Jimmy. I like your songs a whole lot."

Jimmy nodded, sniffed back the tears, and started singing, looking down at his lap at first as if he was embarrassed. Which was silly, because Jimmy's voice was beautiful and his songs were super-cool and Dean had told him so like a hundred times.

 _I heard the bells on Christmas day_  
_Their old familiar carols play,_  
 _And wild and sweet the words repeat_  
 _Of peace on earth, good will to men._

_I thought how, as the day had come,_   
_The belfries of all Christendom_   
_Had rolled along the unbroken song_   
_Of peace on earth, good will to men._

Gradually as he sang Jimmy's voice strengthened, and he lifted his head, singing strong and sweet. His eyes were closed as if he didn't even know they were there anymore, lost in his music. That was Dean's favorite part, when Jimmy just sang and there was nothing but that, and it really was awesome, even though the songs weren't like anything his daddy liked, anything he remembered from his mommy, anything he'd ever liked before. They were new and different and  _Jimmy,_ and that made them great.

 _And in despair I bowed my head:_  
_"There is no peace on earth," I said,_  
 _"For hate is strong and mocks the song_  
 _Of peace on earth, good will to men."_

And Dean thought about Mr. Baker, and he knew it was true. He heard the sadness in Jimmy's voice and tightened his arms around Sammy, holding him close even though he squirmed. There were bad things in the world and it wasn't fair.

But then Jimmy's voice rang out stronger than ever, and there was a deeper note in it, something that resonated around the room like the chiming of a big, deep bell, beautiful and powerful. It was almost as if Jimmy wasn't singing alone anymore, as if there was someone else there too, someone who knew how the story ended and wanted to tell them that everything would be all right someday.

 _Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:_  
_"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;_  
 _The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,_  
 _With peace on earth, good will to men."_

Jimmy seemed somehow larger, too, bigger, stronger, taller. The light from the Christmas tree caught in his hair, crowning him in white, and his face was flushed bright and joyful. The shadows behind him seemed to shift, suddenly, subtly, stretching out like wings on the wall. Dean blinked, dazzled.

 _Till ringing, singing, on its way,_  
_The world revolved from night to day,_  
 _A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,_  
 _Of peace on earth, good will to men!_

Then the song ended. Jimmy shrank back into himself and was just a little boy again, blinking at them. Daddy and Uncle Bobby clapped and clapped, and Dean gave him the biggest grin he could.

"That was  _wicked good,_  Jimmy."

Jimmy blinked at him, eyes wide and dazed. "Isn't that a contradiction?"

"It's slang, buddy," Daddy said, reaching over to shake his shoulder gently. "Don't think about it too hard."

Uncle Bobby kind of shook his head and got up to start making breakfast, and the spell that had fallen over them all broke a little, letting Dean and Sammy go back to playing, while Daddy went back to his book and Jimmy smiled at them all.

And Dean was perfectly satisfied, because he'd been totally right and no one could deny it. Christmas was utterly and completely  _awesome._

(End)


End file.
